“Were all young women beautiful and lovely in those days, and did every feast end by G?sta Berling carrying off one of them?”
Then the old people shook their worthy1 heads, and began to tell of the whirring of the spinning-wheel and the clatter2 of the loom3, of work in the kitchen, of the thud of the flail4 and the path of the axe5 through the forest; but it was not long before they harked back to the old theme. Then sledges6 drove up to the door, horses speeded away through the dark woods with the joyous8 young people; then the dance whirled and the violin-strings snapped. Adventure’s wild chase roared about L?fven’s long lake with thunder and crash. Far away could its noise be heard. The forest tottered9 and fell, all the powers of destruction were let loose; fire flamed out, floods laid waste the land, wild beasts roamed starving about the farmyards. Under the light-footed horses’ hoofs10 all quiet happiness was trampled11 to dust. Wherever the hunt rushed by, men’s hearts flamed up in madness, and the women in pale terror had to flee from their homes.
[139]
And we young ones sat wondering, silent, troubled, but blissful. “What people!” we thought. “We shall never see their like.”
“Did the people of those days never think of what they were doing?” we asked.
“Of course they thought, children,” answered the old people.
“But not as we think,” we insisted.
But the old people did not understand what we meant.
But we thought of the strange spirit of self-consciousness which had already taken possession of us. We thought of him, with his eyes of ice and his long, bent13 fingers,—he who sits there in the soul’s darkest corner and picks to pieces our being, just as old women pick to pieces bits of silk and wool.
Bit by bit had the long, hard, crooked14 fingers picked, until our whole self lay there like a pile of rags, and our best impulses, our most original thoughts, everything which we had done and said, had been examined, investigated, picked to pieces, and the icy eyes had looked on, and the toothless mouth had laughed in derision and whispered,—
“See, it is rags, only rags.”
There was also one of the people of that time who had opened her soul to the spirit with the icy eyes. In one of them he sat, watching the causes of all actions, sneering16 at both evil and good, understanding everything, condemning18 nothing, examining, seeking out, picking to pieces, paralyzing the emotions of the heart and the power of the mind by sneering unceasingly.
The beautiful Marianne bore the spirit of introspection within her. She felt his icy eyes and sneers19[140] follow every step, every word. Her life had become a drama where she was the only spectator. She had ceased to be a human being, she did not suffer, she was not glad, nor did she love; she carried out the beautiful Marianne Sinclair’s r?le, and self-consciousness sat with staring, icy eyes and busy, picking fingers, and watched her performance.
She was divided into two halves. Pale, unsympathetic, and sneering, one half sat and watched what the other half was doing; and the strange spirit who picked to pieces her being never had a word of feeling or sympathy.
But where had he been, the pale watcher of the source of deeds, that night, when she had learned to know the fulness of life? Where was he when she, the sensible Marianne, kissed G?sta Berling before a hundred pairs of eyes, and when in a gust20 of passion she threw herself down in the snow-drift to die? Then the icy eyes were blinded, then the sneer15 was weakened, for passion had raged through her soul. The roar of adventure’s wild hunt had thundered in her ears. She had been a whole person during that one terrible night.
Oh, you god of self-mockery, when Marianne with infinite difficulty succeeded in lifting her stiffened21 arms and putting them about G?sta’s neck, you too, like old Beerencreutz, had to turn away your eyes from the earth and look at the stars.
That night you had no power. You were dead while she sang her love-song, dead while she hurried down to Sj? after the major, dead when she saw the flames redden the sky over the tops of the trees.
For they had come, the mighty22 storm-birds, the griffins of demoniac passions. With wings of fire and[141] claws of steel they had come swooping23 down over you, you icy-eyed spirit; they had struck their claws into your neck and flung you far into the unknown. You have been dead and crushed.
But now they had rushed on,—they whose course no sage24 can predict, no observer can follow; and out of the depths of the unknown had the strange spirit of self-consciousness again raised itself and had once again taken possession of Marianne’s soul.
During the whole of February Marianne lay ill at Ekeby. When she sought out the major at Sj? she had been infected with small-pox. The terrible illness had taken a great hold on her, who had been so chilled and exhausted25. Death had come very near to her, but at the end of the month she had recovered. She was still very weak and much disfigured. She would never again be called the beautiful Marianne.
This, however, was as yet only known to Marianne and her nurse. The pensioners26 themselves did not know it. The sick-room where small-pox raged was not open to any one.
But when is the introspective power greater than during the long hours of convalescence27? Then the fiend sits and stares and stares with his icy eyes, and picks and picks with his bony, hard fingers. And if one looks carefully, behind him sits a still paler creature, who stares and sneers, and behind him another and still another, sneering at one another and at the whole world.
And while Marianne lay and looked at herself with all these staring icy eyes, all natural feelings died within her.
She lay there and played she was ill; she lay there[142] and played she was unhappy, in love, longing28 for revenge.
She was it all, and still it was only a play. Everything became a play and unreality under those icy eyes, which watched her while they were watched by a pair behind them, which were watched by other pairs in infinite perspective.
All the energy of life had died within her. She had found strength for glowing hate and tender love for one single night, not more.
She did not even know if she loved G?sta Berling. She longed to see him to know if he could take her out of herself.
While under the dominion29 of her illness, she had had only one clear thought: she had worried lest her illness should be known. She did not wish to see her parents; she wished no reconciliation30 with her father, and she knew that he would repent31 if he should know how ill she was. Therefore she ordered that her parents and every one else should only know that the troublesome irritation32 of the eyes, which she always had when she visited her native country, forced her to sit in a darkened room. She forbade her nurse to say how ill she was; she forbade the pensioners to go after the doctor at Karlstad. She had of course small-pox, but only very lightly; in the medicine-chest at Ekeby there were remedies enough to save her life.
She never thought of death; she only lay and waited for health, to be able to go to the clergyman with G?sta and have the banns published.
But now the sickness and the fever were gone. She was once more cold and sensible. It seemed to her as if she alone was sensible in this world of fools.[143] She neither hated nor loved. She understood her father; she understood them all. He who understands does not hate.
She had heard that Melchior Sinclair meant to have an auction33 at Bj?rne and make way with all his wealth, that she might inherit nothing after him. People said that he would make the devastation34 as thorough as possible; first he would sell the furniture and utensils35, then the cattle and implements36, and then the house itself with all its lands, and would put the money in a bag and sink it to the bottom of the L?fven. Dissipation, confusion, and devastation should be her inheritance. Marianne smiled approvingly when she heard it: such was his character, and so he must act.
It seemed strange to her that she had sung that great hymn37 to love. She had dreamed of love in a cottage, as others have done. Now it seemed odd to her that she had ever had a dream.
She sighed for naturalness. She was tired of this continual play. She never had a strong emotion. She only grieved for her beauty, but she shuddered38 at the compassion39 of strangers.
Oh, one second of forgetfulness of herself! One gesture, one word, one act which was not calculated!
One day, when the rooms had been disinfected and she lay dressed on a sofa, she had G?sta Berling called. They answered her that he had gone to the auction at Bj?rne.
At Bj?rne there was in truth a big auction. It was an old, rich home. People had come long distances to be present at the sale.
Melchior Sinclair had flung all the property in the[144] house together in the great drawing-room. There lay thousands of articles, collected in piles, which reached from floor to ceiling.
He had himself gone about the house like an angel of destruction on the day of judgment40, and dragged together what he wanted to sell. Everything in the kitchen,—the black pots, the wooden chairs, the pewter dishes, the copper41 kettles, all were left in peace, for among them there was nothing which recalled Marianne; but they were the only things which escaped his anger.
He burst into Marianne’s room, turning everything out. Her doll-house stood there, and her book-case, the little chair he had had made for her, her trinkets and clothes, her sofa and bed, everything must go.
And then he went from room to room. He tore down everything he found unpleasant, and carried great loads down to the auction-room. He panted under the weight of sofas and marble slabs42; but he went on. He had thrown open the sideboards and taken out the magnificent family silver. Away with it! Marianne had touched it. He filled his arms with snow-white damask and with shining linen43 sheets with hem-stitching as wide as one’s hand,—honest home-made work, the fruit of many years of labor,—and flung them down together on the piles. Away with them! Marianne was not worthy to own them. He stormed through the rooms with piles of china, not caring if he broke the plates by the dozen, and he seized the hand-painted cups on which the family arms were burned. Away with them! Let any one who will use them! He staggered under mountains of bedding from the attic44: bolsters45 and pillows so soft that one sunk down[145] in them as in a wave. Away with them! Marianne had slept on them.
He cast fierce glances on the old, well-known furniture. Was there a chair where she had not sat, or a sofa which she had not used, or a picture which she had not looked at, a candlestick which had not lighted her, a mirror which had not reflected her features? Gloomily he shook his fist at this world of memories. He would have liked to have rushed on them with swinging club and to have crushed everything to small bits and splinters.
But it seemed to him a more famous revenge to sell them all at auction. They should go to strangers! Away to be soiled in the cottagers’ huts, to be in the care of indifferent strangers. Did he not know them, the dented46 pieces of auction furniture in the peasants’ houses, fallen into dishonor like his beautiful daughter? Away with them! May they stand with torn-out stuffing and worn-off gilding47, with cracked legs and stained leaves, and long for their former home! Away with them to the ends of the earth, so that no eye can find them, no hand gather them together!
When the auction began, he had filled half the hall with an incredible confusion of piled-up articles.
Right across the room he had placed a long counter. Behind it stood the auctioneer and put up the things; there the clerks sat and kept the record, and there Melchior Sinclair had a keg of brandy standing17. In the other half of the room, in the hall, and in the yard were the buyers. There were many people, and much noise and gayety. The bids followed close on one another, and the auction was lively. But by the keg of brandy, with all his possessions in endless confusion behind him, sat Melchior[146] Sinclair, half drunk and half mad. His hair stood up in rough tufts above his red face; his eyes were rolling, fierce, and bloodshot. He shouted and laughed, as if he had been in the best of moods; and every one who had made a good bid he called up to him and offered a dram.
Among those who saw him there was G?sta Berling, who had stolen in with the crowd of buyers, but who avoided coming under Melchior Sinclair’s eyes. He became thoughtful at the sight, and his heart stood still, as at a presentiment48 of a misfortune.
He wondered much where Marianne’s mother could be during all this. And he went out, against his will, but driven by fate, to find Madame Gustava Sinclair.
He had to go through many doors before he found her. Her husband had short patience and little fondness for wailing49 and women’s complaints. He had wearied of seeing her tears flow over the fate which had befallen her household treasures. He was furious that she could weep over table and bed linen, when, what was worse, his beautiful daughter was lost; and so he had hunted her, with clenched50 fists, before him, through the house, out into the kitchen, and all the way to the pantry.
She could not go any farther, and he had rejoiced at seeing her there, cowering51 behind the step-ladder, awaiting heavy blows, perhaps death. He let her stay there, but he locked the door and stuffed the key in his pocket. She could sit there as long as the auction lasted. She did not need to starve, and his ears had rest from her laments52.
There she still sat, imprisoned53 in her own pantry, when G?sta came through the corridor between the[147] kitchen and the dining-room. He saw her face at a little window high up in the wall. She had climbed up on the step-ladder, and stood staring out of her prison.
“What are you doing up there?” asked G?sta.
“He has shut me in,” she whispered.
“Your husband?”
“Yes. I thought he was going to kill me. But listen, G?sta, take the key of the dining-room door, and go into the kitchen and unlock the pantry door with it, so that I can come out. That key fits here.”
G?sta obeyed, and in a couple of minutes the little woman stood in the kitchen, which was quite deserted54.
“You should have let one of the maids open the door with the dining-room key,” said G?sta.
“Do you think I want to teach them that trick? Then I should never have any peace in the pantry. And, besides, I took this chance to put the upper shelves in order. They needed it, indeed. I cannot understand how I could have let so much rubbish collect there.”
“You have so much to attend to,” said G?sta.
“Yes, that you may believe. If I were not everywhere, neither the loom nor the spinning-wheel would be going right. And if—”
Here she stopped and wiped away a tear from the corner of her eye.
“God help me, how I do talk!” she said; “they say that I won’t have anything more to look after. He is selling everything we have.”
“Yes, it is a wretched business,” said G?sta.
“You know that big mirror in the drawing-room, G?sta. It was such a beauty, for the glass was whole[148] in it, without a flaw, and there was no blemish55 at all on the gilding. I got it from my mother, and now he wants to sell it.”
“He is mad.”
“You may well say so. He is not much better. He won’t stop until we shall have to go and beg on the highway, we as well as the major’s wife.”
“It will never be so bad as that,” answered G?sta.
“Yes, G?sta. When the major’s wife went away from Ekeby, she foretold56 misfortune for us, and now it is coming. She would never have allowed him to sell Bj?rne. And think, his own china, the old Canton cups from his own home, are to be sold. The major’s wife would never have let it happen.”
“But what is the matter with him?” asked G?sta.
“Oh, it is only because Marianne has not come back again. He has waited and waited. He has gone up and down the avenue the whole day and waited for her. He is longing himself mad, but I do not dare to say anything.”
“Marianne believes that he is angry with her.”
“She does not believe that. She knows him well enough; but she is proud and will not take the first step. They are stiff and hard, both of them, and I have to stand between them.”
“You must know that Marianne is going to marry me?”
“Alas, G?sta, she will never do that. She says that only to make him angry. She is too spoiled to marry a poor man, and too proud, too. Go home and tell her that if she does not come home soon, all her inheritance will have gone to destruction. Oh, he will throw everything away, I know, without getting anything for it.”
[149]
G?sta was really angry with her. There she sat on a big kitchen table, and had no thought for anything but her mirrors and her china.
“You ought to be ashamed!” he burst out. “You throw your daughter out into a snow-drift, and then you think that it is only temper that she does not come back. And you think that she is no better than to forsake57 him whom she cares for, lest she should lose her inheritance.”
“Dear G?sta, don’t be angry, you too. I don’t know what I am saying. I tried my best to open the door for Marianne, but he took me and dragged me away. They all say here that I don’t understand anything. I shall not grudge58 you Marianne, G?sta, if you can make her happy. It is not so easy to make a woman happy, G?sta.”
G?sta looked at her. How could he too have raised his voice in anger against such a person as she,—terrified and cowed, but with such a good heart!
“You do not ask how Marianne is,” he said gently.
She burst into tears.
“Will you not be angry with me if I ask you?” she said. “I have longed to ask you the whole time. Think that I know no more of her than that she is living. Not one greeting have I had from her the whole time, not once when I sent clothes to her, and so I thought that you and she did not want to have me know anything about her.”
G?sta could bear it no longer. He was wild, he was out of his head,—sometimes God had to send his wolves after him to force him to obedience,—but this old woman’s tears, this old woman’s laments were harder for him to bear than the howling of the wolves. He let her know the truth.
[150]
“Marianne has been ill the whole time,” he said. “She has had small-pox. She was to get up to-day and lie on the sofa. I have not seen her since the first night.”
Madame Gustava leaped with one bound to the ground. She left G?sta standing there, and rushed away without another word to her husband.
The people in the auction-room saw her come up to him and eagerly whisper something in his ear. They saw how his face grew still more flushed, and his hand, which rested on the cock, turned it round so that the brandy streamed over the floor.
It seemed to all as if Madame Gustava had come with such important news that the auction must end immediately. The auctioneer’s hammer no longer fell, the clerks’ pens stopped, there were no new bids.
Melchior Sinclair roused himself from his thoughts.
“Well,” he cried, “what is the matter?”
And the auction was in full swing once more.
G?sta still sat in the kitchen, and Madame Gustava came weeping out to him.
“It’s no use,” she said. “I thought he would stop when he heard that Marianne had been ill; but he is letting them go on. He would like to, but now he is ashamed.”
G?sta shrugged59 his shoulders and bade her farewell.
In the hall he met Sintram.
“This is a funny show,” exclaimed Sintram, and rubbed his hands. “You are a master, G?sta. Lord, what you have brought to pass!”
“It will be funnier in a little while,” whispered G?sta. “The Broby clergyman is here with a sledge7 full of money. They say that he wants to buy the[151] whole of Bj?rne and pay in cash. Then I would like to see Melchior Sinclair, Sintram.”
Sintram drew his head down between his shoulders and laughed internally a long time. And then he made his way into the auction-room and up to Melchior Sinclair.
“If you want a drink, Sintram, you must make a bid first.”
Sintram came close up to him.
“You are in luck to-day as always,” he said. “A fellow has come to the house with a sledge full of money. He is going to buy Bj?rne and everything both inside and out. He has told a lot of people to bid for him. He does not want to show himself yet for a while.”
“You might say who he is; then I suppose I must give you a drink for your pains.”
Sintram took the dram and moved a couple of steps backwards60, before he answered,—
“They say it is the Broby clergyman, Melchior.”
Melchior Sinclair had many better friends than the Broby clergyman. It had been a life-long feud61 between them. There were legends of how he had lain in wait on dark nights on the roads where the minister should pass, and how he had given him many an honest drubbing, the old fawning62 oppressor of the peasants.
It was well for Sintram that he had drawn63 back a step or two, but he did not entirely64 escape the big man’s anger. He got a brandy glass between his eyes and the whole brandy keg on his feet. But then followed a scene which for a long time rejoiced his heart.
“Does the Broby clergyman want my house?”[152] roared Melchior Sinclair. “Do you stand there and bid on my things for the Broby clergyman? Oh, you ought to be ashamed! You ought to know better!”
He seized a candlestick, and an inkstand, and slung65 them into the crowd of people.
All the bitterness of his poor heart at last found expression. Roaring like a wild beast, he clenched his fist at those standing about, and slung at them whatever missile he could lay his hand on. Brandy glasses and bottles flew across the room. He did not know what he was doing in his rage.
“It’s the end of the auction,” he cried. “Out with you! Never while I live shall the Broby clergyman have Bj?rne. Out! I will teach you to bid for the Broby clergyman!”
He rushed on the auctioneer and the clerks. They hurried away. In the confusion they overturned the desk, and Sinclair with unspeakable fury burst into the crowd of peaceful people.
There was a flight and wildest confusion. A couple of hundred people were crowding towards the door, fleeing before a single man. And he stood, roaring his “Out with you!” He sent curses after them, and now and again he swept about him with a chair, which he brandished66 like a club.
He pursued them out into the hall, but no farther. When the last stranger had left the house, he went back into the drawing-room and bolted the door after him. Then he dragged together a mattress67 and a couple of pillows, laid himself down on them, went to sleep in the midst of all the havoc68, and never woke till the next day.
When G?sta got home, he heard that Marianne wished to speak to him. That was just what he wanted.[153] He had been wondering how he could get a word with her.
When he came into the dim room where she lay, he had to stand a moment at the door. He could not see where she was.
“Stay where you are, G?sta,” Marianne said to him. “It may be dangerous to come near me.”
But G?sta had come up the stairs in two bounds, trembling with eagerness and longing. What did he care for the contagion69? He wished to have the bliss12 of seeing her.
For she was so beautiful, his beloved! No one had such soft hair, such an open, radiant brow. Her whole face was a symphony of exquisite70 lines.
He thought of her eyebrows71, sharply and clearly drawn like the honey-markings on a lily, and of the bold curve of her nose, and of her lips, as softly turned as rolling waves, and of her cheek’s long oval and her chin’s perfect shape.
And he thought of the rosy72 hue73 of her skin, of the magical effect of her coal-black eyebrows with her light hair, and of her blue irises74 swimming in clear white, and of the light in her eyes.
She was beautiful, his beloved! He thought of the warm heart which she hid under a proud exterior75. She had strength for devotion and self-sacrifice concealed76 under that fine skin and her proud words. It was bliss to see her.
He had rushed up the stairs in two bounds, and she thought that he would stop at the door. He stormed through the room and fell on his knees at the head of her bed.
But he meant to see her, to kiss her, and to bid her farewell.
[154]
He loved her. He would certainly never cease to love her, but his heart was used to being trampled on. Oh, where should he find her, that rose without support or roots, which he could take and call his own? He might not keep even her whom he had found disowned and half dead at the roadside.
When should his love raise its voice in a song so loud and clear that he should hear no dissonance through it? When should his palace of happiness be built on a ground for which no other heart longed restlessly and with regret?
He thought how he would bid her farewell.
“There is great sorrow in your home,” he would say. “My heart is torn at the thought of it. You must go home and give your father his reason again. Your mother lives in continual danger of death. You must go home, my beloved.”
These were the words he had on his lips, but they were never spoken.
He fell on his knees at the head of her bed, and he took her face between his hands and kissed her; but then he could not speak. His heart began to beat so fiercely, as if it would burst his breast.
Small-pox had passed over that lovely face. Her skin had become coarse and scarred. Never again should the red blood glow in her cheeks, or the fine blue veins78 show on her temples. Her eyebrows had fallen out, and the shining white of her eyes had changed to yellow.
Everything was laid waste. The bold lines had become coarse and heavy.
They were not few who mourned over Marianne Sinclair’s lost beauty. In the whole of V?rmland, people lamented79 the change in her bright color, her[155] sparkling eyes, and blond hair. There beauty was prized as nowhere else. The joyous people grieved, as if the country had lost a precious stone from the crown of its honor, as if their life had received a blot80 on its glory.
But the first man who saw her after she had lost her beauty did not indulge in sorrow.
Unutterable emotion filled his soul. The more he looked at her, the warmer it grew within him. Love grew and grew, like a river in the spring. In waves of fire it welled up in his heart, it filled his whole being, it rose to his eyes as tears; it sighed on his lips, trembled in his hands, in his whole body.
Oh, to love her, to protect her, to keep her from all harm!
To be her slave, her guide!
Love is strong when it has gone through the baptismal fire of pain. He could not speak to Marianne of parting and renunciation. He could not leave her—he owed her his life. He could commit the unpardonable sin for her sake.
He could not speak a coherent word, he only wept and kissed, until at last the old nurse thought it was time to lead him out.
When he had gone, Marianne lay and thought of him and his emotion. “It is good to be so loved,” she thought.
Yes, it was good to be loved, but how was it with herself? What did she feel? Oh, nothing, less than nothing!
Was it dead, her love, or where had it taken flight? Where had it hidden itself, her heart’s child?
Did it still live? Had it crept into her heart’s darkest corner and sat there freezing under the icy[156] eyes, frightened by the pale sneer, half suffocated81 under the bony fingers?
“Ah, my love,” she sighed, “child of my heart! Are you alive, or are you dead, dead as my beauty?”
The next day Melchior Sinclair went in early to his wife.
“See to it that there is order in the house again, Gustava!” he said. “I am going to bring Marianne home.”
“Yes, dear Melchior, here there will of course be order,” she answered.
Thereupon there was peace between them.
An hour afterwards he was on his way to Ekeby.
It was impossible to find a more noble and kindly82 old gentleman than Melchior Sinclair, as he sat in the open sledge in his best fur cloak and his best rug. His hair lay smooth on his head, but his face was pale and his eyes were sunken in their sockets83.
There was no limit to the brilliancy of the clear sky on that February day. The snow sparkled like a young girl’s eyes when she hears the music of the first waltz. The birches stretched the fine lace-work of their reddish-brown twigs84 against the sky, and on some of them hung a fringe of little icicles.
There was a splendor85 and a festive86 glow in the day. The horses prancing87 threw up their forelegs, and the coachman cracked his whip in sheer pleasure of living.
After a short drive the sledge drew up before the great steps at Ekeby.
The footman came out.
“Where are your masters?” asked Melchior.
[157]
“They are hunting the great bear in Gurlitta Cliff.”
“All of them?”
“All of them, sir. Those who do not go for the sake of the bear go for the sake of the luncheon88.”
Melchior laughed so that it echoed through the silent yard. He gave the man a crown for his answer.
“Go say to my daughter that I am here to take her home. She need not be afraid of the cold. I have the big sledge and a wolfskin cloak to wrap her in.”
“Will you not come in, sir?”
“Thank you! I sit very well where I am.”
The man disappeared, and Melchior began his waiting.
He was in such a genial89 mood that day that nothing could irritate him. He had expected to have to wait a little for Marianne; perhaps she was not even up. He would have to amuse himself by looking about him for a while.
From the cornice hung a long icicle, with which the sun had terrible trouble. It began at the upper end, melted a drop, and wanted to have it run down along the icicle and fall to the earth. But before it had gone half the way, it had frozen again. And the sun made continual new attempts, which always failed. But at last a regular freebooter of a ray hung itself on the icicle’s point, a little one, which shone and sparkled; and however it was, it accomplished90 its object,—a drop fell tinkling91 to the ground.
Melchior looked on and laughed. “You were not such a fool,” he said to the ray of sunlight.
The yard was quiet and deserted. Not a sound[158] was heard in the big house. But he was not impatient. He knew that women needed plenty of time to make themselves ready.
He sat and looked at the dove-cote. The birds had a grating before the door. They were shut in, as long as the winter lasted, lest hawks92 should exterminate93 them. Time after time a pigeon came and stuck out its white head through the meshes94.
“She is waiting for the spring,” said Melchior Sinclair, “but she must have patience for a while.”
The pigeon came so regularly that he took out his watch and followed her, with it in his hand. Exactly every third minute she stuck out her head.
“No, my little friend,” he said, “do you think spring will be ready in three minutes? You must learn to wait.”
And he had to wait himself; but he had plenty of time.
The horses first pawed impatiently in the snow, but then they grew sleepy from standing and blinking in the sun. They laid their heads together and slept.
The coachman sat straight on his box, with whip and reins95 in his hand and his face turned directly towards the sun, and slept, slept so that he snored.
But Melchior did not sleep. He had never felt less like sleeping. He had seldom passed pleasanter hours than during this glad waiting. Marianne had been ill. She had not been able to come before, but now she would come. Oh, of course she would. And everything would be well again.
She must understand that he was not angry with her. He had come himself with two horses and the big sledge.
It is nothing to have to wait when one is sure of[159] one’s self, and when there is so much to distract one’s mind.
There comes the great watch-dog. He creeps forward on the tips of his toes, keeps his eyes on the ground, and wags his tail gently, as if he meant to set out on the most indifferent errand. All at once he begins to burrow96 eagerly in the snow. The old rascal97 must have hidden there some stolen goods. But just as he lifts his head to see if he can eat it now undisturbed, he is quite out of countenance98 to see two magpies99 right in front of him.
“You old thief!” say the magpies, and look like conscience itself. “We are police officers. Give up your stolen goods!”
“Oh, be quiet with your noise! I am the steward—”
“Just the right one,” they sneer.
The dog throws himself on them, and they fly away with slow flaps. The dog rushes after them, jumps, and barks. But while he is chasing one, the other is already back. She flies down into the hole, tears at the piece of meat, but cannot lift it. The dog snatches away the meat, holds it between his paws, and bites in it. The magpies place themselves close in front of him, and make disagreeable remarks. He glares fiercely at them, while he eats, and when they get too impertinent, he jumps up and drives them away.
The sun began to sink down towards the western hills. Melchior looked at his watch. It is three o’clock. And his wife, who had had dinner ready at twelve!
At the same moment the footman came out and announced that Miss Marianne wished to speak to him.
[160]
Melchior laid the wolfskin cloak over his arm and went beaming up the steps.
When Marianne heard his heavy tread on the stairs, she did not even then know if she should go home with him or not. She only knew that she must put an end to this long waiting.
She had hoped that the pensioners would come home; but they did not come. So she had to do something to put an end to it all. She could bear it no longer.
She had thought that he in a burst of anger would have driven away after he had waited five minutes, or that he would break the door in or try to set the house on fire.
But there he sat calm and smiling, and only waited. She cherished neither hatred100 nor love for him. But there was a voice in her which seemed to warn her against putting herself in his power again, and moreover she wished to keep her promise to G?sta.
If he had slept, if he had spoken, if he had been restless, if he had shown any sign of doubt, if he had had the carriage driven into the shade! But he was only patience and certainty.
Certain, so infectiously certain, that she would come if he only waited!
Her head ached. Every nerve quivered. She could get no rest as long as she knew that he sat there. It was as if his will dragged her bound down the stairs.
So she thought she would at least talk with him.
Before he came, she had all the curtains drawn up, and she placed herself so that her face came in the full light.
For it was her intention to put him to a sort of[161] test; but Melchior Sinclair was a wonderful man that day.
When he saw her, he did not make a sign, nor did he exclaim. It was as if he had not seen any change in her. She knew how highly he prized her beauty. But he showed no sorrow. He controlled himself not to wound her. That touched her. She began to understand why her mother had loved him through everything.
He showed no hesitation101. He came with neither reproaches nor excuses.
“I will wrap the wolfskin about you, Marianne; it is not cold. It has been on my knees the whole time.”
To make sure, he went up to the fire and warmed it.
Then he helped her to raise herself from the sofa, wrapped the cloak about her, put a shawl over her head, drew it down under her arms, and knotted it behind her back.
She let him do it. She was helpless. It was good to have everything arranged, it was good not to have to decide anything, especially good for one who was so picked to pieces as she, for one who did not possess one thought or one feeling which was her own.
Melchior lifted her up, carried her down to the sleigh, closed the top, tucked the furs in about her, and drove away from Ekeby.
She shut her eyes and sighed, partly from pleasure, partly from regret. She was leaving life, the real life; but it did not make so much difference to her,—she who could not live but only act.
A few days later her mother arranged that she should meet G?sta. She sent for him while her[162] husband was off on his long walk to see after his timber, and took him in to Marianne.
G?sta came in; but he neither bowed nor spoke77. He stood at the door and looked on the ground like an obstinate102 boy.
“But, G?sta!” cried Marianne. She sat in her arm-chair and looked at him half amused.
“Yes, that is my name.”
“Come here, come to me, G?sta!”
He went slowly forward to her, but did not raise his eyes.
“Come nearer! Kneel down here!”
“Lord God, what is the use of all that?” he cried; but he obeyed.
“G?sta, I want to tell you that I think it was best that I came home.”
“Let us hope that they will not throw you out in the snow-drift again.”
“Oh, G?sta, do you not care for me any longer? Do you think that I am too ugly?”
He drew her head down and kissed her, but he looked as cold as ever.
She was almost amused. If he was pleased to be jealous of her parents, what then? It would pass. It amused her to try and win him back. She did not know why she wished to keep him, but she did. She thought that it was he who had succeeded for once in freeing her from herself. He was the only one who would be able to do it again.
And now she began to speak, eager to win him back. She said that it had not been her meaning to desert him for good, but for a time they must for appearance’s sake break off their connection. He must have seen, himself, that her father was on the[163] verge103 of going mad, that her mother was in continual danger of her life. He must understand that she had been forced to come home.
Then his anger burst out in words. She need not give herself so much trouble. He would be her plaything no longer. She had given him up when she had gone home, and he could not love her any more. When he came home the day before yesterday from his hunting-trip and found her gone without a message, without a word, his blood ran cold in his veins, he had nearly died of grief. He could not love any one who had given him such pain. She had, besides, never loved him. She was a coquette, who wanted to have some one to kiss her and caress104 her when she was here in the country, that was all.
Did he think that she was in the habit of allowing young men to caress her?
Oh yes, he was sure of it. Women were not so saintly as they seemed. Selfishness and coquetry from beginning to end! No, if she could know how he had felt when he came home from the hunt. It was as though he had waded105 in ice-water. He should never get over that pain. It would follow him through the whole of his life. He would never be the same person again.
She tried to explain to him how it had all happened. She tried to convince him that she was still faithful. Well, it did not matter, for now he did not love her any more. He had seen through her. She was selfish. She did not love him. She had gone without leaving him a message.
He came continually back to that. She really enjoyed the performance. She could not be angry, she understood his wrath106 so well. She did not[164] fear any real break between them. But at last she became uneasy. Had there really been such a change in him that he could no longer care for her?
“G?sta,” she said, “was I selfish when I went to Sj? after the major; I knew that they had small-pox there. Nor is it pleasant to go out in satin slippers107 in the cold and snow.”
“Love lives on love, and not on services and deeds,” said G?sta.
“You wish, then, that we shall be as strangers from now on, G?sta?”
“That is what I wish.”
“You are very changeable, G?sta Berling.”
“People often charge me with it.”
He was cold, impossible to warm, and she was still colder. Self-consciousness sat and sneered108 at her attempt to act love.
“G?sta,” she said, making a last effort, “I have never intentionally109 wronged you, even if it may seem so. I beg of you, forgive me!”
“I cannot forgive you.”
She knew that if she had possessed110 a real feeling she could have won him back. And she tried to play the impassioned. The icy eyes sneered at her, but she tried nevertheless. She did not want to lose him.
“Do not go, G?sta! Do not go in anger! Think how ugly I have become! No one will ever love me again.”
“Nor I, either,” he said. “You must accustom111 yourself to see your heart trampled upon as well as another.”
“G?sta, I have never loved any one but you. Forgive me. Do not forsake me! You are the only one who can save me from myself.”
[165]
He thrust her from him.
“You do not speak the truth,” he said with icy calmness. “I do not know what you want of me, but I see that you are lying. Why do you want to keep me? You are so rich that you will never lack suitors.”
And so he went.
And not until he had closed the door, did regret and pain in all their strength take possession of Marianne’s heart.
It was love, her heart’s own child, who came out of the corner where the cold eyes had banished112 him. He came, he for whom she had so longed when it was too late.
When Marianne could with real certainty say to herself that G?sta Berling had forsaken113 her, she felt a purely114 physical pain so terrible that she almost fainted. She pressed her hands against her heart, and sat for hours in the same place, struggling with a tearless grief.
And it was she herself who was suffering, not a stranger, nor an actress. It was she herself. Why had her father come and separated them? Her love had never been dead. It was only that in her weak condition after her illness she could not appreciate his power.
O God, O God, that she had lost him! O God, that she had waked so late!
Ah, he was the only one, he was her heart’s conqueror115! From him she could bear anything. Hardness and angry words from him bent her only to humble116 love. If he had beaten her, she would have crept like a dog to him and kissed his hand.
She did not know what she would do to get relief from this dull pain.
[166]
She seized pen and paper and wrote with terrible eagerness. First she wrote of her love and regret. Then she begged, if not for his love, only for his pity. It was a kind of poem she wrote.
When she had finished she thought that if he should see it he must believe that she had loved him. Well, why should she not send what she had written to him? She would send it the next day, and she was sure that it would bring him back to her.
The next day she spent in agony and in struggling with herself. What she had written seemed to her paltry117 and so stupid. It had neither rhyme nor metre. It was only prose. He would only laugh at such verses.
Her pride was roused too. If he no longer cared for her, it was such a terrible humiliation118 to beg for his love.
Sometimes her good sense told her that she ought to be glad to escape from the connection with G?sta, and all the deplorable circumstances which it had brought with it.
Her heart’s pain was still so terrible that her emotions finally conquered. Three days after she had become conscious of her love, she enclosed the verses and wrote G?sta Berling’s name on the cover. But they were never sent. Before she could find a suitable messenger she heard such things of G?sta Berling that she understood it was too late to win him back.
But it was the sorrow of her life that she had not sent the verses in time, while she could have won him.
All her pain fastened itself on that point: “If I[167] only had not waited so long, if I had not waited so many days!”
The happiness of life, or at any rate the reality of life, would have been won to her through those written words. She was sure they would have brought him back to her.
Grief, however, did her the same service as love. It made her a whole being, potent119 to devote herself to good as well as evil. Passionate120 feelings filled her soul, unrestrained by self-consciousness’s icy chill. And she was, in spite of her plainness, much loved.
But they say that she never forgot G?sta Berling. She mourned for him as one mourns for a wasted life.
And her poor verses, which at one time were much read, are forgotten long ago. I beg of you to read them and to think of them. Who knows what power they might have had, if they had been sent? They are impassioned enough to bear witness of a real feeling. Perhaps they could have brought him back to her.
They are touching121 enough, tender enough in their awkward formlessness. No one can wish them different. No one can want to see them imprisoned in the chains of rhyme and metre, and yet it is so sad to think that it was perhaps just this imperfection which prevented her from sending them in time.
I beg you to read them and to love them. It is a person in great trouble who has written them.
“Child, thou hast loved once, but nevermore
Shalt thou taste of the joys of love!
A passionate storm has raged through thy soul
Rejoice thou hast gone to thy rest!
[168]
No more in wild joy shall thou soar up on high
Rejoice, thou hast gone to thy rest!
No more shalt thou sink in abysses of pain,
Oh, nevermore.
“Child, thou hast loved once, but nevermore
Shall your soul burn and scorch122 in the flames.
Thou wert as a field of brown, sun-dried grass
Flaming with fire for a moment’s space;
From the whirling smoke-clouds the fiery123 sparks
Drove the birds of heaven with piercing cries.
Let them return! Thou burnest no more!—
Wilt124 burn nevermore.
“Child, thou hast loved, but now nevermore
Shalt thou hear love’s murmuring voice.
Thy young heart’s strength, like a weary child
That sits still and tired on the hard school-bench,
Yearns125 for freedom and pleasure.
But no man calleth it more like a forgotten song;
No one sings it more,—nevermore.
“Child, the end has now come!
And with it gone love and love’s joy.
He whom thou lovedst as if he had taught thee
With wings to hover126 through space,
He whom thou lovedst as if he had given thee
Safety and home when the village was flooded,
Is gone, who alone understood
The key to the door of thy heart.
“I ask but one thing of thee, O my beloved:
‘Lay not upon me the load of thy hate!’
That weakest of all things, the poor human heart,
How can it live with the pang127 and the thought
That it gave pain to another?
“O my beloved, if thou wilt kill me,
Use neither dagger128 nor poison nor rope!
Say only you wish me to vanish
From the green earth and the kingdom of life,
And I shall sink to my grave.
[169]
“From thee came life of life; thou gavest me love,
And now thou recallest thy gift, I know it too well.
But do not give me thy hate!
I still have love of living! Oh, remember that;
But under a load of hate I have but to die.”
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
worthy
|
|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
clatter
|
|
| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
loom
|
|
| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
flail
|
|
| v.用连枷打；击打；n.连枷（脱粒用的工具） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
axe
|
|
| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
sledges
|
|
| n.雪橇，雪车( sledge的名词复数 )v.乘雪橇( sledge的第三人称单数 )；用雪橇运载 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
sledge
|
|
| n.雪橇，大锤；v.用雪橇搬运，坐雪橇往 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
joyous
|
|
| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
tottered
|
|
| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
hoofs
|
|
| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
trampled
|
|
| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
bliss
|
|
| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
bent
|
|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
crooked
|
|
| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
sneer
|
|
| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
sneering
|
|
| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
condemning
|
|
| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
sneers
|
|
| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
gust
|
|
| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
stiffened
|
|
| 加强的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
mighty
|
|
| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
swooping
|
|
| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
sage
|
|
| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
exhausted
|
|
| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
pensioners
|
|
| n.领取退休、养老金或抚恤金的人( pensioner的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
convalescence
|
|
| n.病后康复期 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
longing
|
|
| n.（for）渴望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
dominion
|
|
| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
reconciliation
|
|
| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
repent
|
|
| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
irritation
|
|
| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
auction
|
|
| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
devastation
|
|
| n.毁坏；荒废；极度震惊或悲伤 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
utensils
|
|
| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
implements
|
|
| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
hymn
|
|
| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
shuddered
|
|
| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
compassion
|
|
| n.同情，怜悯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
judgment
|
|
| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
copper
|
|
| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
slabs
|
|
| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
linen
|
|
| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
attic
|
|
| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
bolsters
|
|
| n.长枕( bolster的名词复数 )；垫子；衬垫；支持物v.支持( bolster的第三人称单数 )；支撑；给予必要的支持；援助 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
dented
|
|
| v.使产生凹痕( dent的过去式和过去分词 )；损害；伤害；挫伤（信心、名誉等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
gilding
|
|
| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
presentiment
|
|
| n.预感，预觉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
wailing
|
|
| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
clenched
|
|
| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
cowering
|
|
| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
laments
|
|
| n.悲恸，哀歌，挽歌( lament的名词复数 )v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
imprisoned
|
|
| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
deserted
|
|
| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
blemish
|
|
| v.损害；玷污；瑕疵，缺点 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
foretold
|
|
| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
forsake
|
|
| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
grudge
|
|
| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
shrugged
|
|
| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
backwards
|
|
| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
feud
|
|
| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
fawning
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
slung
|
|
| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
brandished
|
|
| v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 )；炫耀 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
mattress
|
|
| n.床垫，床褥 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
havoc
|
|
| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
contagion
|
|
| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
exquisite
|
|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
eyebrows
|
|
| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
rosy
|
|
| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
hue
|
|
| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
irises
|
|
| n.虹( iris的名词复数 )；虹膜；虹彩；鸢尾（花） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
exterior
|
|
| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
concealed
|
|
| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
veins
|
|
| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
lamented
|
|
| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
blot
|
|
| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
suffocated
|
|
| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
sockets
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
twigs
|
|
| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
splendor
|
|
| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
festive
|
|
| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
prancing
|
|
| v.（马）腾跃( prance的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
luncheon
|
|
| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
genial
|
|
| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
accomplished
|
|
| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
tinkling
|
|
| n.丁当作响声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
hawks
|
|
| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
exterminate
|
|
| v.扑灭，消灭，根绝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
meshes
|
|
| 网孔( mesh的名词复数 )； 网状物； 陷阱； 困境 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
reins
|
|
| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
burrow
|
|
| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
rascal
|
|
| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
countenance
|
|
| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
magpies
|
|
| 喜鹊（magpie的复数形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
hatred
|
|
| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
hesitation
|
|
| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
obstinate
|
|
| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
verge
|
|
| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
caress
|
|
| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
waded
|
|
| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
wrath
|
|
| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
slippers
|
|
| n. 拖鞋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
sneered
|
|
| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
intentionally
|
|
| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
possessed
|
|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
accustom
|
|
| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
banished
|
|
| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
Forsaken
|
|
| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
purely
|
|
| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
conqueror
|
|
| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
humble
|
|
| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
paltry
|
|
| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
humiliation
|
|
| n.羞辱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
potent
|
|
| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
passionate
|
|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
touching
|
|
| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
scorch
|
|
| v.烧焦，烤焦；高速疾驶；n.烧焦处，焦痕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
fiery
|
|
| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
wilt
|
|
| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
yearns
|
|
| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
hover
|
|
| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
pang
|
|
| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
dagger
|
|
| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |