I had not the remotest intention of renewing her acquaintance. Unseen by her, I would watch her from some corner of the theatre, and then slip back to London. There would be piquancy3 in the thought that I had gone to see her for old time’s sake, and that she would never know about it. As for speaking to her, that would be an insult after what had happened at Venice. Probably she hated me. She ought to, if she did not.
Though I smiled at myself, truth to tell, I was rather pleased to find I could still be so impulsive4; romance in me was not dead after all these years of uneventful waiting. This journey was the folly5 of a sentimental6 boy—not the cynical7 act of a man of the world.
La Fiesole! La Fiesole! Since she had stared out at me from the printed page I was continually coming across her. Everyone was discussing her; she had sprung out of nowhere into notoriety. Greater than Bernhardt, men said of her: a spontaneous emotional actress of the first rank—the sensation of the moment.
France took her seriously; England quoted French eulogies8 in italics. Fantastic legends were woven about her name, made plausible9 by an occasional touch of accuracy.
Antoine Georges had written the play—it was based on the amours of Lucrezia Borgia. It was said that he was La Fiesole’s lover, that she had given him the plot—that she had even helped him write it; some went so far as to say that it was founded on an incident in her own past life, transposed into a fifteenth century setting. Antoine Georges denied that he was her lover; but the world smiled skeptically—it liked to believe he was. One story asserted that she had been a fille de joie when he came across her; another, with that French instinct for the theatric, that he had reclaimed10 her from a low café in Cherbourg in which she danced. Nothing was too incredible in the face of her incredible success. One fact alone was undisputed—that she was the daughter of the famous Italian actor, many years dead, Signore Cortona.
This confirmed what I already knew about her. I remembered how she had told me in Oxford11 of her early stage career, which she had abandoned to go traveling. I recalled how she had said, “I’m an amateur at living—always chopping and changing. I’ll find what I want some day.”—— So she had found it!
In the English press she was made a peg12 on which to hang a whole wardrobe of side-issue and prejudice. The decency13 of the French stage was discussed. The question was introduced as to whether such a play would be allowed to be performed in London. The superiority of English morals was the topic of some articles; of others, the brutal14 prudery by which British art was stifled15. A fine opportunity was afforded and welcomed for slinging16 mud at the censor17. The discussion was given academic sanction when Andrew Lang patted it on the head in an ingeniously discursive18 monologue19 on the anachronisms of playwrights20, in which he made clear that Monsieur Georges’s tragedy was riddled21 with historic falsity.
It was nearing five when we steamed into the Gare du Nord. My first journey to Paris had been prompted by Fiesole. Then I was escaping from her; now I was going to her. For old time’s sake I made my headquarters at the hotel at which I had then stayed in the Rue22 St. Honoré. After diner I set out through thronged24 streets to book a seat at the theatre. Upon making my request at the office, the man shrugged25 his shoulders and turned away with the inimitable insolence26 of French manners. It was as though he had said, “You must be mad, or extremely bourgeois27.” I had affronted28 him personally, the theatre-management, La Fiesole and last, but not least, the infallible intelligence of Paris. Did Monsieur not know that La Fiesole was the rage, the fashion? Every seat was taken—taken weeks ahead.
My second request was apologetic and explanatory: I honored La Fiesole so much that I had journeyed from London on purpose to see her. What was the earliest date at which he could make it possible? He directed me to an agency which had bought up all the best seats in the house; here I secured a box at an extortionate price for five nights later.
In the intervening days I was frequently tempted29 to abandon my project and return. It seemed the height of foolishness to squander30 five days in order that I might court disappointment. She must have altered—might have deteriorated31. It was just possible there was a grain of truth in the wild stories that circulated about her. And yet—— There were memories that came to me full of nobility and gentleness: windswept days at Oxford; a night at Ferrara; days and nights on the lapping lagoons32 of Venice. I wanted to see her again—and I did not. I blew hot and cold. And while I hesitated, spring raced through the streets of Paris with tossing arms and reckless laughter.
When I entered the theatre it was already packed. The audience seemed conscious that it had assembled for a great occasion; it had dressed for its share in the undertaking33. Gowns of marvelous cut and audacity34 were in evidence. The atmosphere was heavy with the perfume of exotic femininity and flowers.
My box was on the right-hand side, just above and next to the stage. Below me was a nodding sea of plumed35 head-dresses, naked shoulders, and gleaming bosoms37; rising tier on tier to the gold-domed roof, was a wall of eyes and fluttering white faces. Everything was provocative38 of expectancy39. Gods and goddesses, carved on the columns and painted on the curtain, alone were immobile.
A quick succession of taps sounded, followed by three long raps. The theatre was plunged40 in shadow. As though a crowd drew away into the distance, the last murmur41 spent itself. The curtain quivered, then rose reluctantly on the illusion which had brought the unrelated lives of so vast an audience together.
We saw an Italian garden, basking42 in sunlight and languorous43 with summer. Beneath the black shade of cypress-trees stretched marble terraces, mounting up a hillside, up and up, till they hung gleaming like white birds halfhidden in the velvet44 foliage45. In the foreground a fountain splashed. A little way distant the Pope Alexander lolled, toying with his mistress, Giulia. Up and down pathways lined with statues, groups of courtiers wandered: youths in parti-colored hose and slashed46 doublets; girls, vividly47 attired48, exquisitely49 young, engaged in the game of love. Guitars tinkled50 and masses of bloom flared51 stridently in the sun. Sitting by the fountain was the Madonna Lu-crezia and the young Lord of Pesaro. Her face was turned from us; we could only see her vase-like figure and the way she shook her head in answer to all he offered.
The envoy52 from Naples enters and with him the Duke of Biseglia; he urges the Pope for a last time to make an alliance with his country by betrothing53 the Madonna Lucrezia to the Duke. But the Pope does not want the alliance; he is joining with Ludovico of Milan against Naples and war will result.’ While the Pope is refusing, for the first time Lucrezia looks up and her face is turned towards us—the face I had known in my boyhood, innocently girlish, fresh as a flower, so ardent54 and beautiful with longing55 that the theatre caught its breath at sight of it and a muffled56 “Ah!” swept through the audience.
As though attracted by a power which is outside herself, she rises, hesitating between shyness and daring, and steals to where the young Duke is sullenly57 standing58. She takes his hand and presses it against her breast. He snatches it from her. She commences to speak, at first haltingly, but with gathering59 passion. Her voice is hoarse60 and sultry, like that of a Jewess; it is a voice shaken with emotion, which now caresses61 and now tears at the heart. The drone of merriment in the garden and the tinkling62 of the guitars is hushed. Listless lovers come out from the shadows and gather about her, amused by her earnestness. She pleads with the Pope, her father, to give her the Duke—not to send him away from her. Biseglia interrupts haughtily63, asserting that he only desired her for State reasons and that since the Pope refuses Naples’ friendship, he would not marry the Madonna Lucrezia though her father were to allow it.
Alexander laughs boisterously64 at this quarrel of children and like a huge Silenus wanders off into the garden, leaning on his mistress, Giulia, followed by his train of minstrels and dilettantes. Their singing grows more faint as they mount the terraces towards the palace.
Lucrezia watches them depart with a face frozen with despair. As Biseglia turns to go, she darts65 after him and drags him back, fawning66 on him, abasing67 herself, offering herself to him, telling him that whatever comes of it she cannot live without him. He regards her in silence; then falls to smiling and flings her from him, reminding her that she is the Pope’s bastard68. At that the boy Lord of Pesaro, who has watched everything from the fountain, runs with drawn69 sword to her defense70. But she springs between them, saying that when the time comes to kill Biseglia, she will take revenge in her own way like a Borgia. The great Pope, looking back, has seen her awakened71 savagery72 and laughs uproariously. The scene ends with the garden empty and Lucrezia stretched out on the ground, kissing the spot which Biseglia’s feet have touched and weeping in a frenzy73 of abandon, while the Lord of Pesaro looks on impotent and broken-hearted.
Between the first act and the second the French have invaded Italy, so the Pope and the King of Naples have found a common enemy and a common need for alliance. The Duke of Biseglia has again been sent to Rome to sue for the hand of Lucrezia. But in the meanwhile she has been betrothed74 to the Lord of Pesaro, and, to prevent him from joining with the French when Lucrezia is taken from him, his removal has been planned.
The curtain goes up on a night of bacchanalian75 riot in the Papal gardens. Beneath trees a costly76 table has been spread, at which sit men and women attired in every kind of extravagance, as animals, pagan deities77, and mythological78 monstrosities. In the branches overhead are set sconces and blazing torches. Distantly over white terraces and pathways the moon is rising. In the foreground are mummers and tumblers. The servitors who pass up and down the company are humpbacks, dwarfs79, Ethiopians, and dancing-girls.
In the center of the table sits the Pope, and next to him Lucrezia, and next to her Biseglia. Opposite to Biseglia is seated the Lord of Pesaro, and next to him a woman in a mask. With the heat of the wine and the lateness of the hour the women lie back in their lovers’ arms—all except the masked woman and the Madonna Lucrezia. Lucrezia sits erect80 like a frightened child, the one pure thing in the freedom that surrounds her. Biseglia pays her no attention, and from across the table the Lord of Pesaro watches.
The Pope twits Biseglia on his coldness, saying, “Think you that my daughter hath a deformity?” And Biseglia gives the irritable81 answer, “Can a man love a woman while that young spit-fire glowers82 green envy at him opposite?”
Pesaro leaps to his feet, but the Pope, as though to pacify83 him, pledges him and hands the goblet84 to the masked woman to offer to him. Still standing uncertain, Pesaro receives it from her. Raising it slowly, his lips touch the brim; he clutches at his throat, upsetting the cup so that the red stain flows towards Lucrezia. He leans out, gazes in her eyes, and crashes across the table, twisting as he falls, still looking up at her.
The silence that follows is broken by a low rippling85 laugh. The company gaze in astonishment86; it is Lucrezia who is laughing. The child in her face is dead; her expression is inscrutable, wicked and sirenish. She sways towards Biseglia, bending back her head and twining her arms about him. “Hath the Pope’s daughter a deformity that thou canst not love her? Behold87, thou shalt judge. She will dance and dance, till she dances thee into rapture88 and thy soul is poured out upon her.”
From the hand of a servitor she snatches a torch and steps into the open. She commences to dance and, as she dances, unbuckles her girdle so that her gown slips from her. As the beat of the music grows more furious she unbinds her hair, so that it writhes89 like snakes about her firm white arms and bust90. Dwarfs clamber into trees and slide out along their branches, raining rose-leaves on her as she passes. The strangely attired company forget their jaded91 decadence92 and sprawl93 across the table, digging their elbows into its scattered94 magnificence, following the gleam of her young, white body as it twists and turns beneath the whirling torch.
But her gaze is bent95 always on Biseglia; her eyes are aslant96 and beckoning97. Her bosom36 rises and falls more fiercely with the wrenching98 in-take of the breath. Will he never go to her?
She flings back her hair from her shoulders; her body flashes like an unsheathed sword. Nearer and nearer to him she dances. His eyes rest on her moodily99, half-closed. Does he make a movement, quickly she withdraws.
She has flung away her torch and is spinning madly with her hands clasped behind her head. The grass is hidden with rose-leaves; she floats—her feet scarcely stir them. Suddenly she stops; stands erect for an ecstatic moment; sways dizzily; her strength is gone. Her hands, small and pitiful, fly up to cover her eyes. She shakes her hair free to hide her. Her body crumples100. She is broken with her shame and futility101. Biseglia leaps the table and has her in his arms as she falls, pressing his hot lips against hers. With clenched102 fists she smites103 him from her, slips from his embrace, and runs shimmering104 like a white doe through the forest of blackness.
With a shout the revelers shatter the banquet and pour in pursuit of her. Biseglia leads them, darting105 ahead into the shadows. Dancing and singing, the disheveled bacchanalians stagger across the dark, trouping106 along dusky terraces with twining arms, following the fleeing dryad.
Torches are burnt out and smolder107 in their sockets108. Night is tattered109 by the dawn. Amid the havoc110 of trampled111 chalices112 and glass sprawls113 the wine-stained figure of the dead Lord of Pesaro—the man who, could she have loved him, would have given her all.
La Fiesole! La Fiesole! We rose as one man as the curtain dropped. We did not care to think whether this was wrong—it was lovely. She had danced our souls out of their prejudices, out of their walls of restraint into chaos114. The rapture of her beauty ran through our veins115 like wine. Our imaginations pursued her along pale terraces. The fragrance116 of crushed rose-leaves was in our nostrils117 and the coolness of night. Our breath came short, as though we had been running. Our senses were reeling and our eyes dazzled. We stood up in our places clutching at the air, calling and calling, hungry for the sight of her.
For myself, I was smitten118 with blindness. My eyes saw the striving throng23 through a mist and probed into the beyond, where she ran on and on palely, forever from me. I shouted to her, but she grew more distant; never once did she look back or stay her footsteps.
I was aware of a deep stillness—a hoarse peal119 of laughter: thousands of eyes glared up at me and down on me, and mouths gaped120 mockery. The mist cleared; Fiesole was standing before the curtain. The audience had grown hushed at sight of her while I had continued calling. From the stage, twenty feet away, she was smiling at me, insolent121 and charming, her body still shuddering122 with exertion123 beneath the velvet cloak which lay across her shoulders. What did I care, though to-morrow the whole of Paris should laugh? She had danced my soul into ecstasy124. I placed my hands on the edge of the box and leant out drunkenly, shouting her name, “Fiesole! Fiesole!”
She kissed her hand at me derisively125, bowed to the audience, and was gone.
I sank in my place, a sickening nostalgia126 for her upon me. I did not reason; I only knew I wanted her—wanted her as she had once wanted me, with her hands and eyes and body. In a dim way I felt angry with myself for having lost her. She had made me disgusted with my coldness at Venice as I had watched my counterpart, the Duke of Biseglia. From the theatric torture in her face I had learnt something of how brutal a man may be when he fancies that he is righteously moral. She, whom I saw now so remotely, might have been mine; through these chilly127 years La Fiesole might have been my companion, had I had the faith to take what was offered. I had sought the things that were impossible. I had made a god of my scruples128. I had sinned weakly, following Vi who did not belong to me. I had sat down to wait for her, and all the while Life was tapping at the door. I tasted Life to-night—— And who knows? Perhaps I had broken this woman’s heart. I would no longer be niggardly129. I would go to her; accuse myself to her; beat down her hatred130 of me; carry her off.
While these thoughts trooped across my mind, the crooked131 sphinx-like smile of Paris wandered over me, examined me, hinted at tragedy with laughter, and widened its painted lips at my absurdity132.
The curtain rustled133. The warning raps sounded. Lights sank, and heads bent forward.
In a dim-lit room, chilly to the point of austerity, sat Lucrezia. Tall candles shone upon her face—a face purged134 of emotion, nunlike135 and wooden with an expression of distant contemplation. Behind her head was an open window through which floated in the sound of music. She heeded136 it not at all. In the far corner stood a bed with the curtains drawn back. At an altar a lamp burnt before a shining crucifix. Her women were unrobing her for the bridal night. They spoke137 to her, but she did not answer. They blamed her for her indifference138 to Biseglia: she had never kissed him, never caressed139 him since the night when she had won him. Did she not know that he hungered for her kindness?
She gave them no answer. They lifted her this way and that as though she were a doll; she seemed to have forgotten her body. She might have been in a trance, leading a life separate, dreaming of things innocent and holy.
One by one the candles were extinguished; only the lamp burnt before the altar. When her women were gone; she slipped from the bed and knelt with her head bowed before the cross.
The music dies; silence falls. Along the passage comes a creeping footstep. The door opens; Biseglia enters, blinking his eyes at the room’s dimness. He whispers her name. At last she hears him and rises, standing before the altar. He crosses the room reverently140. He halts, gazing at her. He rushes forward, masters her, crushes her to him, and cries that she torments141 him—starves him.
When she makes no response, but lies pulseless in his arms, he carries her to the bed, incoherently claiming as his right the fondness she does not give him. Then he grows gentle and kneels before her, kissing her feet and calling her his god.
She speaks. Her voice is small. “Biseglia, thou didst love me only when I had made myself worthless that I might win thy fondness.”
He yearns142 up to her with his arms, disowning his former coldness, protesting that he adores her. She leans over him sadly; he raises his lips to hers. As she kisses him, her expression kindles143 to triumph. She withdraws her hand from her breast; the Borgian dagger144 sinks into his heart.
She gazes stonily145 on the man who had once refused her. The lamp before the altar flickers146 and goes out. The room is plunged in darkness.
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1
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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2
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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3
piquancy
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| n.辛辣，辣味，痛快 | |
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4
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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6
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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7
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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8
eulogies
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| n.颂词，颂文( eulogy的名词复数 ) | |
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9
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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10
reclaimed
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| adj.再生的；翻造的；收复的；回收的v.开拓( reclaim的过去式和过去分词 )；要求收回；从废料中回收（有用的材料）；挽救 | |
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11
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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12
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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13
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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15
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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16
slinging
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| 抛( sling的现在分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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17
censor
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| n./vt.审查，审查员；删改 | |
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discursive
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| adj.离题的，无层次的 | |
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monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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playwrights
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| n.剧作家( playwright的名词复数 ) | |
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21
riddled
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| adj.布满的；充斥的；泛滥的v.解谜，出谜题(riddle的过去分词形式) | |
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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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23
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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26
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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28
affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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30
squander
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| v.浪费，挥霍 | |
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deteriorated
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
lagoons
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| n.污水池( lagoon的名词复数 )；潟湖；（大湖或江河附近的）小而浅的淡水湖；温泉形成的池塘 | |
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33
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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plumed
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| 饰有羽毛的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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38
provocative
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| adj.挑衅的，煽动的，刺激的，挑逗的 | |
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39
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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40
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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41
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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42
basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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43
languorous
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| adj.怠惰的，没精打采的 | |
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44
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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45
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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46
slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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47
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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48
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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50
tinkled
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| （使）发出丁当声，（使）发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 )； 叮当响着发出，铃铃响着报出 | |
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51
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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52
envoy
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| n.使节，使者，代表，公使 | |
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53
betrothing
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| v.将某人许配给，订婚( betroth的现在分词 ) | |
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54
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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55
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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56
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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57
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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58
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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59
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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60
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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61
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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62
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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63
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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64
boisterously
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| adv.喧闹地，吵闹地 | |
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65
darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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66
fawning
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| adj.乞怜的，奉承的v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的现在分词 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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67
abasing
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| 使谦卑( abase的现在分词 )； 使感到羞耻； 使降低（地位、身份等）； 降下 | |
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68
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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69
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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70
defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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71
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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72
savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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73
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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74
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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75
bacchanalian
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| adj.闹酒狂饮的；n.发酒疯的人 | |
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76
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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77
deities
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| n.神，女神( deity的名词复数 )；神祗；神灵；神明 | |
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78
mythological
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| adj.神话的 | |
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79
dwarfs
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| n.侏儒，矮子（dwarf的复数形式）vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的第三人称单数形式） | |
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80
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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81
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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82
glowers
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| v.怒视( glower的第三人称单数 ) | |
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83
pacify
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| vt.使(某人)平静(或息怒)；抚慰 | |
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84
goblet
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| n.高脚酒杯 | |
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85
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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86
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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87
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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88
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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89
writhes
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的第三人称单数 ) | |
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90
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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91
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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92
decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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93
sprawl
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| vi.躺卧，扩张，蔓延；vt.使蔓延；n.躺卧，蔓延 | |
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94
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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95
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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96
aslant
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| adv.倾斜地；adj.斜的 | |
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97
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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98
wrenching
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| n.修截苗根，苗木铲根（铲根时苗木不起土或部分起土）v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的现在分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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99
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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100
crumples
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| 压皱，弄皱( crumple的第三人称单数 )； 变皱 | |
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101
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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102
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
smites
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的第三人称单数 ) | |
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104
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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105
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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106
trouping
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| 巡回演出（troupe的现在分词形式） | |
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107
smolder
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| v.无火焰地闷烧；n.焖烧，文火 | |
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108
sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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109
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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110
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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111
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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112
chalices
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| n.高脚酒杯( chalice的名词复数 )；圣餐杯；金杯毒酒；看似诱人实则令人讨厌的事物 | |
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113
sprawls
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| n.（城市）杂乱无序拓展的地区( sprawl的名词复数 )；随意扩展；蔓延物v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的第三人称单数 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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114
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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115
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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116
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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117
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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118
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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119
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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120
gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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121
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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122
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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123
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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124
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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125
derisively
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| adv. 嘲笑地，嘲弄地 | |
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126
nostalgia
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| n.怀乡病，留恋过去，怀旧 | |
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127
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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128
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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129
niggardly
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| adj.吝啬的，很少的 | |
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130
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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131
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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132
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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133
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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134
purged
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| 清除（政敌等）( purge的过去式和过去分词 )； 涤除（罪恶等）； 净化（心灵、风气等）； 消除（错事等）的不良影响 | |
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135
nunlike
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| adj.太阳似的，非常明亮的，辉煌的 | |
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136
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
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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138
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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139
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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141
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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142
yearns
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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143
kindles
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的第三人称单数 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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144
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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145
stonily
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| 石头地，冷酷地 | |
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146
flickers
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| 电影制片业； （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的名词复数 ) | |
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