But nothing was farther from his mind than the wish to touch her. She was a woman alone with him under somewhat hazardous6 circumstances, and he protected her instinctively7 and made her as comfortable as possible. Although he would have risen to the occasion as a matter of course, he was grateful that he was not with a woman who would expect to be made love to, but with this strange and delightful8 creature, who, exhilarated by the terrific speed and the danger, could enjoy herself in precisely9 his own fashion. He did not even ask her if she were frightened, although once, as they tore through a narrow gorge10 with the roar of waters far below, he leaned over the side of the carriage, holding the cushions firmly against her with his left hand, then, as he resumed his former position, remarked:
“Three hundred feet, I should think, and perhaps three inches between the wheels and the edge.”
She laughed, and he turned his eyes quickly to her white face, in which the dark eyes were more widely opened and eager than usual.
“You enjoy the idea of possibly being dashed to pieces on those rocks—getting out of it all.”
Her eyes met his in a cold flash. “Do you realize what you have said?”
“That you are the bravest woman I ever saw, but with no love of life. Could you be the greatest actress in the world otherwise?”
“I wonder if you really know what you are saying? But you are young—so very young.”
“What has that to do with it?”
“Well—perhaps—what?”
“Nothing, really. I have seen you look very old and very young, and every shade between. When you get that helmet on your head in Die Walküre, you look sixteen, much too young for the part. Just now you look like a fate. A woman who calls out of their graves other women that have been dead for centuries and gives them life again for four or five hours,—Wagner’s operas are much too long,—who makes them live so intensely that their very dust must feel the current,—why, of course, you have no age. Margarethe Styr disappears, ceases to exist. When she returns to her tenement11, it must be with the sensation of being born again. For myself—well, perhaps I am forty masquerading as a boy.”
“I know exactly how old you are,” she said maliciously12. “And you could not grow a mustache to save your life.”
“Nothing would induce me to!” And then they both laughed, although he blushed very red, for he was sensitive on the subject of his age and wished that Peerages had never been invented.
Styr put her hands to her face and gave a faint scream. A column of fire had shot up in the path just ahead of the horses.
“The moon has gone under a cloud and the outrider has lit the torch,” Ordham reassured13 her.
She dropped her hands and leaned forward eagerly. The moon had made the wild mountain scenery, the forests and snow peaks, the upper reaches, so beautiful that more than once she had held her breath, felt as if her soul were full of crystal flowers. The flaming torch, high in the right hand of the outrider, lit the vast scene in a fashion that suggested the approach to Hell arranged in honour of distinguished14 visitors. The waterfalls leaping down the opposite cliffs, the glittering peaks, the gloomy roaring depths of the gorges15, started out red and black, disappeared, flashed in the distance, rushed forward to hurl16 themselves at the flying carriage. Ordham wondered how many horses the King killed in a year. But he was too much interested in the scene, the adventure, to care. It was more wonderful, more satisfying, than anything he had ever dreamed of. For a moment he had an ecstatic desire for death, if only to avoid the anticlimax17 of life.
The moon came out again. The torch was extinguished. All the Alpine18 world was white and silver. It seemed like a sudden ascent19 into the vast quiet regions of space from the chaos20 of the Inferno21. Both Ordham and his companion, who had been sitting tensely, leaned back with a sensation of contentment and peace.
In a moment she turned to him with softly shining eyes and said, “Cannot you understand the King a little better?”
“I think so.”
“Not yet! Be thankful for that.”
“When you began to sing to-night, I was frightfully oppressed by the thought of that tormented22 soul only a few feet from me. Then I forgot him.”
“Is it possible?” She stared at him with a puzzled interest. She knew nothing of the worldly and mental precocity23 of young Englishmen of Ordham’s class, and Ordham was himself in more ways than one.
“?‘Tormented soul.’ Nothing could express it more perfectly24.” She continued in a moment: “It was developed for some other planet where all conditions are higher and more satisfying than on this, then strayed here through some mismanagement of the Unknown Forces—and into the dark passages of a Wittelsbach brain, of all places! If he only had been in a position to work out his one hope of mortal salvation—to become a great artist. Genius inflamed25 and smothered26 by the megalomania of a king—and of a king with no part to play on the stage of Europe! No wonder there are abysses in his brain for which this life will build no bridges.”
“Do you know him well?”
“I have never exchanged a word with him, never met him face to face.”
“No?” Ordham turned to her with a quickened interest. He had attributed the Nachmeister’s defence to the amiable27 mood of the moment, but it did not occur to him to doubt the word of Margarethe Styr. “He has shown you so much favour—”
“He is grateful for my voice, poor soul, for it gives him a few moments’ happiness. But I shall never know him. I wish I might. I understand him so well.”
“Then you too do not belong to this planet?”
“I wonder you did not add that I too have a tormented soul.”
“That is what I meant.”
“But I have not.” She looked at him steadily28. “Perhaps—once—yes. But that is long past. You, being a man, with a more sensitive fibre in you than most men possess,—you may catch just a glimmer29 of the depths of Ludwig, in spite of your tender years. But there is one thing of which you know absolutely nothing, and that is the intense and absorbing joy that an artist finds in his art.”
“?‘His.’ Can a woman?”
“Oh, you are clever! But, yes—in certain conditions. There are moments when I am happier than any one not an artist can ever dream of being. And betweenwhiles—with my studies, my long meditations30 upon the characters I portray—for I find always something new in those strange women, that not even The Master apprehended31 when he resurrected them—in my unruffled life, in my certainty of repeated triumphs—well, it is close enough to happiness; although I am willing to confess that it might not have been at your age. Have we really pulled up a bit?”
The horses were trotting32 quietly across a valley, where, unable to find excitement, the King, no doubt, was in the habit of sparing his unhappy beasts. But a few moments later the speed was increased again, apparently33 that they might enter a village on the other side of the valley like a hurricane. Here, as in all the other villages through which they had flashed, was the same rattling34 of windows flung up, the same flaring35 of lights, the same passionate36 cry:—
“Heil unserem K?nig, Heil!”
But in this case the cheers stopped abruptly37, for the faithful peasants had time to discover their mistake; the foaming38 horses came to a sudden halt before the gasthaus trembling and panting. As Ordham and Countess Tann descended39 into the narrow street which flamed like a comet, there were loud astonished cries. The outrider made a brief explanation, and the lights were extinguished, the windows slammed. In the beloved romantic figure of their King these humble40 folk took a deathless interest, but not the least in any guest he might invite to his castles; although for a week from this night they discussed the strange fact that he condescended41 to have guests at all, much less relinquish42 in their favour his midnight drive.
But the landlord of the inn had expected the King’s visitors, and kept his counsel: a groom43 on horseback had galloped44 in with orders half an hour before. Ordham and Styr were conducted into a long dark raftered room which had been hastily aired of its evening fumes45 of beer and tobacco, and illuminated46 with lamps and candles. There was a fire in the big tiled stove, and Ordham quickly threw off his overcoat and removed the long Arabian-looking wrap in which the singer was muffled47. The supper was not ready, and he looked her over as she stood by the fire with her back to him, a tall figure draped in severe white folds, a finely poised49 head with loosened coils of heavy but rippling50 brown hair that shone as if polished daily with a silk handkerchief. But although she was engaged in the prosaic51 occupation of warming her hands, he received the impression that he always did in the first act of Tristan and the second of G?tterd?mmerung, of a ruthless mental force, barely held in leash52, of sullen53 deadly fires.
It was like a sudden vision of Aspasia in the dark tobacco-scented room of the little Alpine gasthaus, but in a moment he forgot his fancies; she turned to him with bright eyes and flushed cheeks that made her look human and young.
“How odd! How odd!” she cried. “And the oddest part of it is that I like it—talking to a human being once more. It might even seem natural to feel young and gay again. And in spite of your preternatural insight—or whatever it is—you are deliciously young, and, I think, stimulated54 all that was still youthful in my brain the moment we made friends.”
“Are we to remain friends?”
“I do not know. I must think it over.”
“I shall call.”
“Of course. That would be mere55 civility. But I am not sure that you will get in.”
He was never demonstrative in manner, although he often indulged in certain exaggerations of speech. But he could direct a quiet smiling appeal from his juvenile56 orbs57 which he had discovered was seldom resisted. He was far too clever to flirt58 with Margarethe Styr, so upon this occasion he merely looked like a very young man begging indulgence of a goddess. She smiled and shook her head.
“I am not sure. It is the first step that counts, and first steps are too often fatal. I might find myself enjoying the society of my kind again. I want nothing less—the even tenor59 of my life destroyed. When one has attained60 a form of happiness it is the quintessence of folly61 to risk it.”
“But the first step—you have taken it. We have had an adventurous62 night together and I shall refuse to be ignored.”
“To-morrow it will seem like a dream.”
“To-morrow, but not a week hence,” he retorted with his uncommon63 sagacity, which fascinated her more than any trait he had yet displayed to her. “And nothing can alter the fact that it is no dream, and that neither of us can forget it. I shall call to-morrow.”
She laughed and they sat down to the omelette that preceded the chickens. Like all singers she had a healthy appetite, and wondered that she had not missed her usual replenishment64 even after but an hour and a half of work.
“How do you manage it—concentrating all that tragedy in your eyes?” asked Ordham, abruptly. “Is it that you draw your brows together in some peculiar65 way—I fancy that is it; they are so low and straight. Will you show me?”
“Do you think I am a machine?” The artist arose in her wrath66. “Do you fancy that when I am suffering the anguish67 of Iseult or Brynhildr I put eyebrows68 on my soul?”
“But you don’t really feel it? I thought artists dared not feel too much. I have seen would-be emotional actresses carried away to such an extent that they were quite ridiculous.”
“You give no stage artist the credit of a brain, I suppose? Can you imagine a born actress—born, mind you—living her part, yet never quite shaking loose from that strong grip above? That is what is meant by ‘living a part.’ You abandon yourself deliberately—with the whole day’s preparation—into that other personality, almost to a soul in possession, and are not your own self for one instant; although the purely69 mental part of that self never relaxes its vigilance over the usurper70. It is a curious dual71 experience that none but an artist can understand. Of course that perfect duality is only possible after years of study, work, practical experience, mastery of technique. No beginner, no matter what her genius, should dare to abandon herself to her r?les.”
“You must have had great masters. You have harrowed me horribly.”
“I have had none, except Wagner. Five years of stage experience in the United States were of a certain value, for although I never had an important part—I was too tall, I was not interested, my talent barely stirred—still I observed, I studied in an abstract mental fashion, I gained poise48. It is an achievement alone to feel at home on the stage.”
He was burning with impatience72. “How in heaven’s name could they have failed over there to discover that you were a great actress, whether or not you chose to cultivate your genius—and why not? why not? I hope you do not think me merely curious. I am trying to speak as one of the public that adores you—quite impersonally73. There are so few great actresses. I feel that you had no right, for any private reasons whatever, to build a bushel over your talent. No genius belongs to himself alone.”
The colour left her face, but she replied composedly: “Perhaps not, but that is not the way that women, at least, reason when they are young. I went on the stage, not because I was stage-struck, nor in poverty, but for a reason that I cannot give you. When I found that the big heavy voice that even singing teachers had laughed at could be minted into pure gold for the new music,—which only one of the many instructors74 I sought knew anything about, or at least believed in,—then I felt resigned even to the causes which had driven me to the stage. I have become inordinately75 ambitious; I often wonder what life can mean to those that have no excuse for ambition—it is one of the reasons which enabled me to begin life all over again. I was indeed another being after my first triumph at Bayreuth, and not only because half the crowned heads in Europe rushed to hear me the second time I sang; when I stood on the greatest stage in the world with all my being set to the music soaring from my throat, not a nerve out of tune76, I knew that I no longer was of common clay, that nothing that had ever happened to me before mattered in the least. Ah, what matter the charnel rooms in the soul when such memories blaze forever above? Poor women! Poor women!—that have no such blinding moments—that must sit and think—and think—”
Her eyes, dilated77, horror-struck, gazed beyond Ordham, who felt intolerably excited. He drew a short breath of relief when she recovered herself abruptly, and said with a laugh: “But the world is very ungrateful to its stage artists. Think of Mallinger, Josephine Schefzky, Malwina Schnoor von Caroldsfeld. Less than twenty years ago all Germany rang with their fame. Have you ever heard their names?”
“I have heard of Schefzky! It was she that overturned the swan boat in the winter garden of the Residenz when sailing with the King—dressed up as Lohengrin!—and he ran off, dripping, and calling to a lackey78 to pull her out. I love that story.”
“It is all that keeps poor Josephine’s name alive. However—what matter so long as we have our little day? Only the chosen few have that. What have you made up your mind to do with your own life?”
She put the question so abruptly that he almost dropped his fork. “If I have interested you sufficiently79 to inspire that question, then the last six or eight years have not atrophied80 everything but the artist. Unless you asked it for the sake of saying something,” he added anxiously.
“Not altogether. I suddenly wondered. Excellenz Nachmeister and the few people I meet often mention you. I have had the impression that you were badly spoilt, but your head does not seem to be turned.”
“Why should it be? No one has ever spoilt me—thought of such a thing” (and he really meant it). “I am going into the diplomatic service, if you care to know. I am here to get my German—not that I get much, between rushing about and four teachers that practise their English on me.”
“Why four teachers?”
“I take every new one that is recommended, and am too weak-minded to dismiss the others. They all seem to be so horribly poor.”
“I must find you a good teacher.” She spoke81 impulsively82, feeling an uncommon interest in a promising83 young creature, quite thirteen years her junior. She had never had a child, but as she regarded Ordham, who in the mellow84 light looked his youngest, and was eating his abundant supper as daintily as a girl, she moved toward him with an instinct of protection. He still had the soft bloom of lip and cheek and eye that the most innocent of women lose so early, and she knew the world he lived in. What a pity it must go, that he too must change! Between his inherited impressions and exceeding opportunities, he might know his world, and his brain might be all that admiring Munich acclaimed85, but he was young, divinely young. No girl had ever given her such an impression of youth—fleeting youth! His contacts with the emotional side of life had made no impression on him beyond satisfying his curiosity and saving his mind from morbidity86. She divined, indeed, that, his heart still being untouched, his nature was practically unawakened, that his casual experiences, when they had not disgusted him, had affected88 him no more than some story he had read and forgotten. Other phases of life meant so much more.
She reached these conclusions by aid of her deep instincts rather than through any conscious mental process, for her own contacts had been almost entirely89 with American men who were either ingenuously90 fast or uncompromisingly puritanical91, generally the former, circumstances having limited her experience. She had met, as all handsome actresses must, young Americans of Ordham’s age; and when they had not been precocious92 and impertinent, they had belonged to that gallant93, clean-minded, well-bred type the universities turn out in such abundance—the type that has every attribute to win the girl and not one to interest the woman. Ordham’s inherited complexities94, intensified95 by growing up among men of affairs in a country always consciously making history, added to his own uncommon individuality, fascinated her. She would have liked to cultivate him, but she relinquished96 that idea, and said practically:
“These are precious years if you really mean to make a career. I know an excellent teacher, and will send her to you to-morrow. But you must not waste her time. Will you promise me to study?”
“Of course.” Ordham was always willing to promise anything. “I’ll dismiss all four and take her for as many hours as she will give me. You inspire me with a desire to work. Did you begin to study German when you were very young that your accent is so perfect?”
“I did not study anything when I was very young.” She hesitated, reflected that in all probability she would never see this young man again, and might as well drop a good seed when the opportunity was given her; it did not occur often. “I did not know even the English alphabet until I was fifteen. Nor did any other child in the wretched coal-mining district where I first saw light. It was peopled wholly by the poorest class of immigrants from eastern Europe—brought over wholesale97 by enterprising and not too honest mine owners. My clothes were made of hop-sacking. I had not the faintest idea that I was good-looking, for the simple reason that I was never clean or half fed. My mind was as tightly closed as an oyster98. I recall no desires beyond want of more food and the night that brought rest. My mother died at my birth, and I was taken in by a family of fellow-immigrants to whom one more child meant one more future bread-winner.
“Suddenly, I went to New York. Almost immediately I began to attend a public school—a free school, not a public school in your sense. Later I had tutors, masters. I learned well from the first. My intellect, that is to say my interest in books, awakened87 early—novels, at first, of course; gradually heavier works. In them I soon learned to forget; that is to say, I found in them a separate and particular happiness. I made a special study of the language and the literature of Germany. Whence I inherit my tendencies and talents I have no idea. From nowhere, most likely. Some mysterious disarrangement of particles, of which science, so far, knows nothing. You are an exotic yourself, or I am much mistaken. To return—that rushing of the awakened mind over dam after dam, barrier after barrier,—there is nothing under heaven like it, except the discovery that one was born to be a great artist, which, of course, is the supreme99 happiness. There were times, even then, when I was as happy as I ever shall be; that is to say, my mental exaltation was as great, for I suppose that is what mortal happiness really means, what gives us our most precise distinction from the lower order of animals, and makes us feel our relationship to that omnipotent100 force which we personify as God. At all events it was a life apart, a secret life, a life in which no one—no one—” her voice rose on an accent almost furious—“could enter. And of course those years of study played their part in making me what I am to-day. Most singers have no brain, no mental life; they must be taught their r?les like parrots, they put on a simulation of art with their costumes which deceives the great stupid public and touches no one. Mere emotionalism, animal robustness101, they call temperament102. I strengthened and developed my brain during those terrible years to such an extent that I now act out of it, think myself into every part, relying not at all upon the instructions of the uninspired, nor upon chance.”
Ordham had forgotten his dessert and was staring at her, fascinated, almost bewildered. Again she had lifted a corner of the veil. If she would but fling it aside! And pity overwhelmed him, for he saw far behind her words. But his face betrayed little of his emotions, and when she paused abruptly, he said: “You have an object in telling me this. What is it?”
“To show what obstacles can be overcome by the power of the will and by ceaseless mental activity rightly directed. You have no obstacle to overcome but your indolence, which may, nevertheless, balk103 your languid desire for a career. Therefore, if you fail; if ten years hence you are a mere society butterfly, a drone, which, I infer, Munich is doing its best to make of you; if twenty years hence you are an old beau, with no object but to be invited out every night that you may escape death by ennui,—you need curse no one but yourself. Had I failed, I should have been justified104 in throwing myself into the river, cursing life, fate, your entire sex. I have conquered in spite of every millstone that could be hung about a woman’s neck. But you!”
He had flushed, and looked frightened. The vision she had evoked5 was not pleasant. He answered steadily, however: “Thank you for telling me all this. I know that no one, not even Princess Nachmeister, has ever heard one-tenth as much from you. What shall I do to show my gratitude105?”
“Make a great man of yourself and study with Fr?ulein Lutz,” she said gayly, as they rose from the table. “I think they are bringing those poor horses round.”
They started by the light of the torch, but on the return journey the horses were spared, save on the more dangerous parts of the road. Then they galloped as if bent106 on destruction. While the carriage rocked and bounded through a gorge with the thunder of waters below and the narrow pass reeling in the red flame, Ordham regaled his companion with the story of the wild black night when the outrider, overcome by panic, had flung the torch into the depths, and fled shrieking107, leaving the King to his fate. But she only laughed and shrugged108 her shoulders, and would not talk until they entered the valley of the P?llat. The moon had sailed high above the thick Bavarian clouds, and the great white pile of Neuschwanstein seemed to be poised in the black void. Margarethe pointed109 to a solitary110 figure standing111 on the balcony before the throne room.
“The King,” she said softly. “He has his consolations112. Who can say he is not happier in his mystic communion with nature, in his freedom to dwell amidst such scenes as this, than the mere mortals that pity him and think him mad? He is looking out now on the three snow peaks. Who knows? He may be their offspring. Mountains are no mere masses of rock, and he is no mere mortal. When his adumbrated113 spirit sheds that gross mass of flesh, who can say what glorious destiny awaits it? I should like to meet him out there in space. I feel sure he will reign114 over a noble kingdom, where he will no longer be alone, but where only the rarest spirits may enter.”
“Are you in love with Ludwig—with his soul?”
“Not even that. But I should be glad to know that he, above all men,—for he has suffered most,—had found what we all seek and never find—I mean all of us who are worthy115 of loneliness.”
“You do not believe in mortal companionship, then?”
“No.”
“I wonder.”
As he handed her out of the carriage in the courtyard they were surrounded by lackeys116, and her anxious maid awaited her. But he said, as they shook hands:
“Thank you so much—again and again. And I shall call to-morrow.”
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1
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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revoked
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| adj.[法]取消的v.撤销，取消，废除( revoke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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5
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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7
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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8
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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gorges
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| n.山峡，峡谷( gorge的名词复数 )；咽喉v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的第三人称单数 )；作呕 | |
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16
hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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anticlimax
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| n.令人扫兴的结局；突降法 | |
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alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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inferno
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| n.火海；地狱般的场所 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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precocity
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| n.早熟，早成 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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34
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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35
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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36
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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37
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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38
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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39
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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40
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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41
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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42
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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43
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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44
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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45
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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46
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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47
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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48
poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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49
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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50
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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51
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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52
leash
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| n.牵狗的皮带，束缚；v.用皮带系住 | |
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53
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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55
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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56
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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57
orbs
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| abbr.off-reservation boarding school 在校寄宿学校n.球，天体，圆形物( orb的名词复数 ) | |
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58
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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59
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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60
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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61
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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62
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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63
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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64
replenishment
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| n.补充(货物) | |
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65
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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66
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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67
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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68
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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usurper
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| n. 篡夺者, 僭取者 | |
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71
dual
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| adj.双的；二重的，二元的 | |
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72
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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impersonally
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| ad.非人称地 | |
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74
instructors
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| 指导者，教师( instructor的名词复数 ) | |
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inordinately
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| adv.无度地，非常地 | |
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76
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
lackey
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| n.侍从；跟班 | |
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79
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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80
atrophied
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| adj.萎缩的，衰退的v.（使）萎缩，（使）虚脱，（使）衰退( atrophy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
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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82
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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83
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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84
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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85
acclaimed
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| adj.受人欢迎的 | |
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86
morbidity
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| n.病态；不健全；发病；发病率 | |
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87
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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88
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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89
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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90
ingenuously
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| adv.率直地，正直地 | |
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91
puritanical
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| adj.极端拘谨的；道德严格的 | |
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92
precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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93
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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complexities
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| 复杂性(complexity的名词复数)； 复杂的事物 | |
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95
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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97
wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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98
oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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99
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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100
omnipotent
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| adj.全能的，万能的 | |
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101
robustness
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| 坚固性，健壮性；鲁棒性 | |
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102
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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103
balk
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| n.大方木料；v.妨碍；不愿前进或从事某事 | |
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104
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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105
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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106
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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107
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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108
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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109
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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110
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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111
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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112
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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113
adumbrated
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| v.约略显示，勾画出…的轮廓( adumbrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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115
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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116
lackeys
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| n.听差( lackey的名词复数 )；男仆（通常穿制服）；卑躬屈膝的人；被待为奴仆的人 | |
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