Forget him? Ah! they took a sage3 plan to make me forget him — the wiseheads! They showed me how good he was; they made of my dear little man a stainless4 little hero. And then they had prated5 about his manner of loving. What means had I, before this day, of being certain whether he could love at all or not?
I had known him jealous, suspicious; I had seen about him certain tendernesses, fitfulnesses — a softness which came like a warm air, and a ruth which passed like early dew, dried in the heat of his irritabilities: this was all I had seen. And they, Père Silas and Modeste Maria Beck (that these two wrought6 in concert I could not doubt) opened up the adytum of his heart — showed me one grand love, the child of this southern nature’s youth, born so strong and perfect, that it had laughed at Death himself, despised his mean rape7 of matter, clung to immortal8 spirit, and in victory and faith, had watched beside a tomb twenty years.
This had been done — not idly: this was not a mere9 hollow indulgence of sentiment; he had proven his fidelity10 by the consecration11 of his best energies to an unselfish purpose, and attested12 it by limitless personal sacrifices: for those once dear to her he prized — he had laid down vengeance13, and taken up a cross.
Now, as for Justine Marie, I knew what she was as well as if I had seen her. I knew she was well enough; there were girls like her in Madame Beck’s school — phlegmatics — pale, slow, inert14, but kind-natured, neutral of evil, undistinguished for good.
If she wore angels’ wings, I knew whose poet-fancy conferred them. If her forehead shone luminous15 with the reflex of a halo, I knew in the fire of whose irids that circlet of holy flame had generation.
Was I, then, to be frightened by Justine Marie? Was the picture of a pale dead nun16 to rise, an eternal barrier? And what of the charities which absorbed his worldly goods? What of his heart sworn to virginity?
Madame Beck — Père Silas — you should not have suggested these questions. They were at once the deepest puzzle, the strongest obstruction17, and the keenest stimulus18, I had ever felt. For a week of nights and days I fell asleep — I dreamt, and I woke upon these two questions. In the whole world there was no answer to them, except where one dark little man stood, sat, walked, lectured, under the head-piece of a bandit bonnet-grec, and within the girth of a sorry palet?t, much be-inked, and no little adust.
After that visit to the Rue19 des Mages, I did want to see him again. I felt as if — knowing what I now knew — his countenance20 would offer a page more lucid21, more interesting than ever; I felt a longing22 to trace in it the imprint23 of that primitive24 devotedness25, the signs of that half-knightly, half-saintly chivalry26 which the priest’s narrative27 imputed28 to his nature. He had become my Christian29 hero: under that character I wanted to view him.
Nor was opportunity slow to favour; my new impressions underwent her test the next day. Yes: I was granted an interview with my “Christian hero”— an interview not very heroic, or sentimental30, or biblical, but lively enough in its way.
About three o’clock of the afternoon, the peace of the first classe — safely established, as it seemed, under the serene31 sway of Madame Beck, who, in propria persona was giving one of her orderly and useful lessons — this peace, I say, suffered a sudden fracture by the wild inburst of a palet?t.
Nobody at the moment was quieter than myself. Eased of responsibility by Madame Beck’s presence, soothed33 by her uniform tones, pleased and edified34 with her clear exposition of the subject in hand (for she taught well), I sat bent35 over my desk, drawing — that is, copying an elaborate line engraving36, tediously working up my copy to the finish of the original, for that was my practical notion of art; and, strange to say, I took extreme pleasure in the labour, and could even produce curiously37 finical Chinese facsimiles of steel or mezzotint plates — things about as valuable as so many achievements in worsted-work, but I thought pretty well of them in those days.
What was the matter? My drawing, my pencils, my precious copy, gathered into one crushed-up handful, perished from before my sight; I myself appeared to be shaken or emptied out of my chair, as a solitary38 and withered39 nutmeg might be emptied out of a spice-box by an excited cook. That chair and my desk, seized by the wild palet?t, one under each sleeve, were borne afar; in a second, I followed the furniture; in two minutes they and I were fixed40 in the centre of the grand salle — a vast adjoining room, seldom used save for dancing and choral singing-lessons — fixed with an emphasis which seemed to prohibit the remotest hope of our ever being permitted to stir thence again.
Having partially41 collected my scared wits, I found myself in the presence of two men, gentlemen, I suppose I should say — one dark, the other light — one having a stiff, half-military air, and wearing a braided surtout; the other partaking, in garb42 and bearing, more of the careless aspect of the student or artist class: both flourishing in full magnificence of moustaches, whiskers, and imperial. M. Emanuel stood a little apart from these; his countenance and eyes expressed strong choler; he held forth43 his hand with his tribune gesture.
“Mademoiselle,” said he, “your business is to prove to these gentlemen that I am no liar44. You will answer, to the best of your ability, such questions as they shall put. You will also write on such theme as they shall select. In their eyes, it appears, I hold the position of an unprincipled impostor. I write essays; and, with deliberate forgery45, sign to them my pupils’ names, and boast of them as their work. You will disprove this charge.”
Grand ciel! Here was the show-trial, so long evaded46, come on me like a thunder-clap. These two fine, braided, mustachioed, sneering47 personages, were none other than dandy professors of the college — Messieurs Boissec and Rochemorte — a pair of cold-blooded fops and pedants48, sceptics, and scoffers. It seems that M. Paul had been rashly exhibiting something I had written — something, he had never once praised, or even mentioned, in my hearing, and which I deemed forgotten. The essay was not remarkable49 at all; it only seemed remarkable, compared with the average productions of foreign school-girls; in an English establishment it would have passed scarce noticed. Messieurs Boissec and Rochemorte had thought proper to question its genuineness, and insinuate50 a cheat; I was now to bear my testimony51 to the truth, and to be put to the torture of their examination.
A memorable52 scene ensued.
They began with classics. A dead blank. They went on to French history. I hardly knew Mérovée from Pharamond. They tried me in various ‘ologies, and still only got a shake of the head, and an unchanging “Je n’en sais rien.”
After an expressive53 pause, they proceeded to matters of general information, broaching54 one or two subjects which I knew pretty well, and on which I had often reflected. M. Emanuel, who had hitherto stood looking on, dark as the winter-solstice, brightened up somewhat; he thought I should now show myself at least no fool.
He learned his error. Though answers to the questions surged up fast, my mind filling like a rising well, ideas were there, but not words. I either could not, or would not speak — I am not sure which: partly, I think, my nerves had got wrong, and partly my humour was crossed.
I heard one of my examiners — he of the braided surtout — whisper to his co-professor, “Est-elle donc idiote?”
“Yes,” I thought, “an idiot she is, and always will be, for such as you.”
But I suffered — suffered cruelly; I saw the damps gather on M. Paul’s brow, and his eye spoke55 a passionate56 yet sad reproach. He would not believe in my total lack of popular cleverness; he thought I could be prompt if I would.
At last, to relieve him, the professors, and myself, I stammered57 out:
“Gentlemen, you had better let me go; you will get no good of me; as you say, I am an idiot.”
I wish I could have spoken with calm and dignity, or I wish my sense had sufficed to make me hold my tongue; that traitor58 tongue tripped, faltered59. Beholding60 the judges cast on M. Emanuel a hard look of triumph, and hearing the distressed61 tremor62 of my own voice, out I burst in a fit of choking tears. The emotion was far more of anger than grief; had I been a man and strong, I could have challenged that pair on the spot — but it was emotion, and I would rather have been scourged63 than betrayed it.
The incapables! Could they not see at once the crude hand of a novice64 in that composition they called a forgery? The subject was classical. When M. Paul dictated65 the trait on which the essay was to turn, I heard it for the first time; the matter was new to me, and I had no material for its treatment. But I got books, read up the facts, laboriously67 constructed a skeleton out of the dry bones of the real, and then clothed them, and tried to breathe into them life, and in this last aim I had pleasure. With me it was a difficult and anxious time till my facts were found, selected, and properly jointed68; nor could I rest from research and effort till I was satisfied of correct anatomy69; the strength of my inward repugnance70 to the idea of flaw or falsity sometimes enabled me to shun71 egregious72 blunders; but the knowledge was not there in my head, ready and mellow73; it had not been sown in Spring, grown in Summer, harvested in Autumn, and garnered74 through Winter; whatever I wanted I must go out and gather fresh; glean75 of wild herbs my lapful, and shred76 them green into the pot. Messieurs Boissec and Rochemorte did not perceive this. They mistook my work for the work of a ripe scholar.
They would not yet let me go: I must sit down and write before them. As I dipped my pen in the ink with a shaking hand, and surveyed the white paper with eyes half-blinded and overflowing77, one of my judges began mincingly78 to apologize for the pain he caused.
“Nous agissons dans l’intérêt de la vérité. Nous ne voulons pas vous blesser,” said he.
Scorn gave me nerve. I only answered —
“Dictate, Monsieur.”
Rochemorte named this theme: “Human Justice.”
Human Justice! What was I to make of it? Blank, cold abstraction, unsuggestive to me of one inspiring idea; and there stood M. Emanuel, sad as Saul, and stern as Joab, and there triumphed his accusers.
At these two I looked. I was gathering79 my courage to tell them that I would neither write nor speak another word for their satisfaction, that their theme did not suit, nor their presence inspire me, and that, notwithstanding, whoever threw the shadow of a doubt on M. Emanuel’s honour, outraged80 that truth of which they had announced themselves the — champions: I meant to utter all this, I say, when suddenly, a light darted81 on memory.
Those two faces looking out of the forest of long hair, moustache, and whisker — those two cold yet bold, trustless yet presumptuous82 visages — were the same faces, the very same that, projected in full gaslight from behind the pillars of a portico83, had half frightened me to death on the night of my desolate84 arrival in Villette. These, I felt morally certain, were the very heroes who had driven a friendless foreigner beyond her reckoning and her strength, chased her breathless over a whole quarter of the town.
“Pious mentors85!” thought I. “Pure guides for youth! If ‘Human Justice’ were what she ought to be, you two would scarce hold your present post, or enjoy your present credit.”
An idea once seized, I fell to work. “Human Justice” rushed before me in novel guise86, a red, random87 beldame, with arms akimbo. I saw her in her house, the den32 of confusion: servants called to her for orders or help which she did not give; beggars stood at her door waiting and starving unnoticed; a swarm88 of children, sick and quarrelsome, crawled round her feet, and yelled in her ears appeals for notice, sympathy, cure, redress89. The honest woman cared for none of these things. She had a warm seat of her own by the fire, she had her own solace90 in a short black pipe, and a bottle of Mrs. Sweeny’s soothing91 syrup92; she smoked and she sipped93, and she enjoyed her paradise; and whenever a cry of the suffering souls about her ‘pierced her ears too keenly — my jolly dame1 seized the poker94 or the hearth-brush: if the offender95 was weak, wronged, and sickly, she effectually settled him: if he was strong, lively, and violent, she only menaced, then plunged96 her hand in her deep pouch97, and flung a liberal shower of sugar-plums.
Such was the sketch98 of “Human Justice,” scratched hurriedly on paper, and placed at the service of Messrs. Boissec and Rochemorte. M. Emanuel read it over my shoulder. Waiting no comment, I curtsied to the trio, and withdrew.
After school that day, M. Paul and I again met. Of course the meeting did not at first run smooth; there was a crow to pluck with him; that forced examination could not be immediately digested. A crabbed99 dialogue terminated in my being called “une petite moqueuse et sans-coeur,” and in Monsieur’s temporary departure.
Not wishing him to go quite away, only desiring he should feel that such a transport as he had that day given way to, could not be indulged with perfect impunity100, I was not sorry to see him, soon after, gardening in the berceau. He approached the glass door; I drew near also. We spoke of some flowers growing round it. By-and-by Monsieur laid down his spade; by-and-by he recommenced conversation, passed to other subjects, and at last touched a point of interest.
Conscious that his proceeding101 of that day was specially102 open to a charge of extravagance, M. Paul half apologized; he half regretted, too, the fitfulness of his moods at all times, yet he hinted that some allowance ought to be made for him. “But,” said he, “I can hardly expect it at your hands, Miss Lucy; you know neither me, nor my position, nor my history.”
His history. I took up the word at once; I pursued the idea.
“No, Monsieur,” I rejoined. “Of course, as you say, I know neither your history, nor your position, nor your sacrifices, nor any of your sorrows, or trials, or affections, or fidelities103. Oh, no! I know nothing about you; you are for me altogether a stranger.”
“Hein?” he murmured, arching his brows in surprise.
“You know, Monsieur, I only see you in classe — stern, dogmatic, hasty, imperious. I only hear of you in town as active and wilful104, quick to originate, hasty to lead, but slow to persuade, and hard to bend. A man like you, without ties, can have no attachments105; without dependants106, no duties. All we, with whom you come in contact, are machines, which you thrust here and there, inconsiderate of their feelings. You seek your recreations in public, by the light of the evening chandelier: this school and yonder college are your workshops, where you fabricate the ware107 called pupils. I don’t so much as know where you live; it is natural to take it for granted that you have no home, and need none.”
“I am judged,” said he. “Your opinion of me is just what I thought it was. For you I am neither a man nor a Christian. You see me void of affection and religion, unattached by friend or family, unpiloted by principle or faith. It is well, Mademoiselle; such is our reward in this life.”
“You are a philosopher, Monsieur; a cynic philosopher” (and I looked at his palet?t, of which he straightway brushed the dim sleeve with his hand), “despising the foibles of humanity — above its luxuries — independent of its comforts.”
“Et vous, Mademoiselle? vous êtes proprette et douillette, et affreusement insensible, par-dessus le marché.”
“But, in short, Monsieur, now I think of it, you must live somewhere? Do tell me where; and what establishment of servants do you keep?”
With a fearful projection108 of the under-lip, implying an impetus109 of scorn the most decided110, he broke out —
“Je vis dans un trou! I inhabit a den, Miss — a cavern111, where you would not put your dainty nose. Once, with base shame of speaking the whole truth, I talked about my ‘study’ in that college: know now that this ‘study’ is my whole abode112; my chamber113 is there and my drawing-room. As for my ‘establishment of servants’” (mimicking my voice) “they number ten; les voilà.”
And he grimly spread, close under my eyes, his ten fingers.
“I black my boots,” pursued he savagely114. “I brush my palet?t.”
“No, Monsieur, it is too plain; you never do that,” was my parenthesis115.
“Je fais mon lit et mon ménage; I seek my dinner in a restaurant; my supper takes care, of itself; I pass days laborious66 and loveless; nights long and lonely; I am ferocious116, and bearded and monkish117; and nothing now living in this world loves me, except some old hearts worn like my own, and some few beings, impoverished118, suffering, poor in purse and in spirit, whom the kingdoms of this world own not, but to whom a will and testament119 not to be disputed has bequeathed the kingdom of heaven.”
“Ah, Monsieur; but I know!”
“What do you know? many things, I verily believe; yet not me, Lucy!”
“I know that you have a pleasant old house in a pleasant old square of the Basse-Ville — why don’t you go and live there?”
“Hein?” muttered he again.
“I liked it much, Monsieur; with the steps ascending120 to the door, the grey flags in front, the nodding trees behind — real trees, not shrubs121 — trees dark, high, and of old growth. And the boudoir-oratoire — you should make that room your study; it is so quiet and solemn.”
He eyed me closely; he half-smiled, half-coloured. “Where did you pick up all that? Who told you?” he asked.
“Nobody told me. Did I dream it, Monsieur, do you think?”
“Can I enter into your visions? Can I guess a woman’s waking thoughts, much less her sleeping fantasies?”
“If I dreamt it, I saw in my dream human beings as well as a house. I saw a priest, old, bent, and grey, and a domestic — old, too, and picturesque122; and a lady, splendid but strange; her head would scarce reach to my elbow — her magnificence might ransom123 a duke. She wore a gown bright as lapis-lazuli — a shawl worth a thousand francs: she was decked with ornaments124 so brilliant, I never saw any with such a beautiful sparkle; but her figure looked as if it had been broken in two and bent double; she seemed also to have outlived the common years of humanity, and to have attained125 those which are only labour and sorrow. She was become morose126 — almost malevolent127; yet somebody, it appears, cared for her in her infirmities — somebody forgave her trespasses128, hoping to have his trespasses forgiven. They lived together, these three people — the mistress, the chaplain, the servant — all old, all feeble, all sheltered under one kind wing.”
He covered with his hand the upper part of his face, but did not conceal129 his mouth, where I saw hovering130 an expression I liked.
“I see you have entered into my secrets,” said he, “but how was it done?”
So I told him how — the commission on which I had been sent, the storm which had detained me, the abruptness131 of the lady, the kindness of the priest.
“As I sat waiting for the rain to cease, Père Silas whiled away the time with a story,” I said.
“A story! What story? Père Silas is no romancist.”
“Shall I tell Monsieur the tale?”
“Yes: begin at the beginning. Let me hear some of Miss Lucy’s French — her best or her worst — I don’t much care which: let us have a good poignée of barbarisms, and a bounteous133 dose of the insular134 accent.”
“Monsieur is not going to be gratified by a tale of ambitious proportions, and the spectacle of the narrator sticking fast in the midst. But I will tell him the title — the ‘Priest’s Pupil.’”
“Bah!” said he, the swarthy flush again dyeing his dark cheek. “The good old father could not have chosen a worse subject; it is his weak point. But what of the ‘Priest’s Pupil?’”
“Oh! many things.”
You may as well define what things. I mean to know.”
“There was the pupil’s youth, the pupil’s manhood; — his avarice135, his ingratitude136, his implacability, his inconstancy. Such a bad pupil, Monsieur! — so thankless, cold-hearted, unchivalrous, unforgiving!
“Et puis?” said he, taking a cigar.
“Et puis,” I pursued, “he underwent calamities137 which one did not pity — bore them in a spirit one did not admire — endured wrongs for which one felt no sympathy; finally took the unchristian revenge of heaping coals of fire on his adversary’s head.”
“You have not told me all,” said he.
“Nearly all, I think: I have indicated the heads of Père Silas’s chapters.”
“You have forgotten one-that which touched on the pupil’s lack of affection — on his hard, cold, monkish heart.”
“True; I remember now. Père Silas did say that his vocation138 was almost that of a priest — that his life was considered consecrated139.”
“By what bonds or duties?”
“By the ties of the past and the charities of the present.”
“You have, then, the whole situation?”
“I have now told Monsieur all that was told me.”
Some meditative140 minutes passed.
“Now, Mademoiselle Lucy, look at me, and with that truth which I believe you never knowingly violate, answer me one question. Raise your eyes; rest them on mine; have no hesitation141; fear not to trust me — I am a man to be trusted.”
I raised my eyes.
“Knowing me thoroughly142 now — all my antecedents, all my responsibilities — having long known my faults, can you and I still be friends?”
“If Monsieur wants a friend in me, I shall be glad to have a friend in him.”
“But a close friend I mean — intimate and real — kindred in all but blood. Will Miss Lucy be the sister of a very poor, fettered143, burdened, encumbered144 man?”
I could not answer him in words, yet I suppose I did answer him; he took my hand, which found comfort, in the shelter of his. His friendship was not a doubtful, wavering benefit — a cold, distant hope — a sentiment so brittle145 as not to bear the weight of a finger: I at once felt (or thought I felt) its support like that of some rock.
“When I talk of friendship, I mean true friendship,” he repeated emphatically; and I could hardly believe that words so earnest had blessed my ear; I hardly could credit the reality of that kind, anxious look he gave. If he really wished for my confidence and regard, and really would give me his — why, it seemed to me that life could offer nothing more or better. In that case, I was become strong and rich: in a moment I was made substantially happy. To ascertain146 the fact, to fix and seal it, I asked —
“Is Monsieur quite serious? Does he really think he needs me, and can take an interest in me as a sister?”
“Surely, surely,” said he; “a lonely man like me, who has no sister, must be but too glad to find in some woman’s heart a sister’s pure affection.”
“And dare I rely on Monsieur’s regard? Dare I speak to him when I am so inclined?”
“My little sister must make her own experiments,” said he; “I will give no promises. She must tease and try her wayward brother till she has drilled him into what she wishes. After all, he is no inductile material in some hands.”
While he spoke, the tone of his voice, the light of his now affectionate eye, gave me such a pleasure as, certainly, I had never felt. I envied no girl her lover, no bride her bridegroom, no wife her husband; I was content with this my voluntary, self-offering friend. If he would but prove reliable, and he looked reliable, what, beyond his friendship, could I ever covet147? But, if all melted like a dream, as once before had happened —?
“Qu’est-ce donc? What is it?” said he, as this thought threw its weight on my heart, its shadow on my countenance. I told him; and after a moment’s pause, and a thoughtful smile, he showed me how an equal fear — lest I should weary of him, a man of moods so difficult and fitful — had haunted his mind for more than one day, or one month.
On hearing this, a quiet courage cheered me. I ventured a word of re-assurance. That word was not only tolerated; its repetition was courted. I grew quite happy — strangely happy — in making him secure, content, tranquil148. Yesterday, I could not have believed that earth held, or life afforded, moments like the few I was now passing. Countless149 times it had been my lot to watch apprehended150 sorrow close darkly in; but to see unhoped-for happiness take form, find place, and grow more real as the seconds sped, was indeed a new experience.
“Lucy,” said M. Paul, speaking low, and still holding my hand, “did you see a picture in the boudoir of the old house?”
“I did; a picture painted on a panel.”
“The portrait of a nun?”
“Yes.”
“You heard her history?”
“Yes.”
“You remember what we saw that night in the berceau?”
“I shall never forget it.”
“You did not connect the two ideas; that would be folly151?”
“I thought of the apparition152 when I saw the portrait,” said I; which was true enough.
“You did not, nor will you fancy,” pursued he, “that a saint in heaven perturbs153 herself with rivalries154 of earth? Protestants are rarely superstitious155; these morbid156 fancies will not beset157 you?”
“I know not what to think of this matter; but I believe a perfectly158 natural solution of this seeming mystery will one day be arrived at.”
“Doubtless, doubtless. Besides, no good-living woman — much less a pure, happy spirit-would trouble amity159 like ours n’est-il pas vrai?”
Ere I could answer, Fifine Beck burst in, rosy160 and abrupt132, calling out that I was wanted. Her mother was going into town to call on some English family, who had applied161 for a prospectus162: my services were needed as interpreter. The interruption was not unseasonable: sufficient for the day is always the evil; for this hour, its good sufficed. Yet I should have liked to ask M. Paul whether the “morbid fancies,” against which he warned me, wrought in his own brain.
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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stainless
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| adj.无瑕疵的，不锈的 | |
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prated
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| v.（古时用语）唠叨，啰唆( prate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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rape
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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attested
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| adj.经检验证明无病的，经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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stimulus
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rue
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countenance
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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longing
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imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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25
devotedness
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26
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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28
imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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30
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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31
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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32
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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33
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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34
edified
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| v.开导，启发( edify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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36
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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37
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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38
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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39
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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40
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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41
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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42
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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43
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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44
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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45
forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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46
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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47
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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48
pedants
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| n.卖弄学问的人，学究，书呆子( pedant的名词复数 ) | |
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49
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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50
insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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51
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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52
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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53
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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54
broaching
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| n.拉削；推削；铰孔；扩孔v.谈起( broach的现在分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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55
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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56
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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57
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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59
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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60
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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61
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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62
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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63
scourged
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| 鞭打( scourge的过去式和过去分词 )； 惩罚，压迫 | |
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64
novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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65
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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66
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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67
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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68
jointed
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| 有接缝的 | |
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69
anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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70
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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71
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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72
egregious
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| adj.非常的，过分的 | |
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73
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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74
garnered
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| v.收集并（通常）贮藏（某物），取得，获得( garner的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
glean
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| v.收集(消息、资料、情报等) | |
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76
shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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77
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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78
mincingly
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79
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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80
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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81
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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82
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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83
portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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84
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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85
mentors
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| n.（无经验之人的）有经验可信赖的顾问( mentor的名词复数 )v.（无经验之人的）有经验可信赖的顾问( mentor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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86
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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87
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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88
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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89
redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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90
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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91
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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92
syrup
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| n.糖浆，糖水 | |
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93
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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95
offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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96
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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97
pouch
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| n.小袋，小包，囊状袋；vt.装...入袋中，用袋运输；vi.用袋送信件 | |
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98
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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99
crabbed
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| adj.脾气坏的；易怒的；（指字迹）难辨认的；（字迹等）难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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101
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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102
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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103
fidelities
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| 忠诚，忠实（fidelity的复数形式） | |
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104
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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105
attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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106
dependants
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| 受赡养者，受扶养的家属( dependant的名词复数 ) | |
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107
ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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108
projection
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| n.发射，计划，突出部分 | |
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109
impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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110
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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111
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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112
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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113
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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114
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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115
parenthesis
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| n.圆括号，插入语，插曲，间歇，停歇 | |
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116
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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117
monkish
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| adj.僧侣的，修道士的，禁欲的 | |
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118
impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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119
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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120
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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121
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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122
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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123
ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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124
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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125
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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126
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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127
malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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128
trespasses
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| 罪过( trespass的名词复数 )； 非法进入 | |
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129
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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130
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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131
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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132
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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133
bounteous
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| adj.丰富的 | |
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134
insular
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| adj.岛屿的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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135
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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136
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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137
calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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138
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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139
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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140
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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141
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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142
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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143
fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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145
brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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146
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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147
covet
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| vt.垂涎；贪图(尤指属于他人的东西) | |
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148
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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149
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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150
apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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151
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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152
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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153
perturbs
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| v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的第三人称单数 ) | |
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154
rivalries
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| n.敌对，竞争，对抗( rivalry的名词复数 ) | |
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155
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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156
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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157
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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158
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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159
amity
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| n.友好关系 | |
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160
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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161
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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162
prospectus
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| n.计划书；说明书；慕股书 | |
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