It is easy to ignore the inner kingdom so long as no man enters it. It is easy to be impersonal14, mental, a consummate16 devotee of art so long as the heart and soul and passions encounter no powerful disturbing force. Nothing so astonished and shocked her in these comparatively calm moments as the discovery that art was not all, that common primitive18 instincts were stronger in the final test than the elevated choice of the brain supported by genius and will. So profound had been her contempt for human weakness, her loathing19 for men, so exalted20, so triumphant21 her progress in that great sphere to which her voice had given her the golden key, that she had believed herself to be elevated permanently22 to a plane high above the common. She had never closed her eyes to the very second-rate clay of which most musicians were composed, both mental and moral, but she had been as serenely23 aware of her superior intellectual gifts, of a will stronger than any she had ever encountered, as she had been of her voice, her dramatic genius; and she had never even speculated upon a possible descent from that glorious plane where she dwelt alone with her art. She was a woman, after all, and she so abhorred24 herself that, had she possessed25 the sorceries of Isolde’s ancestors, she would have obliterated26 Earth from the cosmic scheme.
She had received Ordham’s letter a few moments before departing for the opera house, and the same post brought a note from Princess Nachmeister, announcing that “our jüngling, Gott sei dank, was really engaged to the American heiress of forty million marks, and was the more riveted27 to his bargain—that charming uncertain youth!—by being madly, nay28 absurdly, in love with the ravishing beauty.” Then the blood had gone to Styr’s head.
Even now she wondered if she really loved Ordham, for she was sensible of none of that organic craving29 which once alone would have distinguished30 one man from another in her imperial regard. At this moment, indeed, she did not love him at all; she hated him with a passion which, if stilled by exhaustion31, was none the less volcanic32, eloquent33 of the tremendous upheaval34 in her nature. But she was too wise not to suspect that it was the hatred35 which is merely love reversed. It would pass, her very mental balance would see to that; and what then? Hers had not been the experience of love in its infinite variety, and she stared out at the dark future with the first real fear of her life. During her long intimacy37 with Ordham she had been fully38 conscious that she had never liked any one half as well, never drawn39 as close to any mortal spirit. When he had gone, she had had time for but a brief reaction from her perverse40 feminine exultation41 in renewed freedom, in the luxury of missing him, for she had left almost immediately for Switzerland, then on her second Gastspiel. Even so she had missed him, and had thought of him tenderly, hoped that he would keep his word and return to Munich. But she had been very busy, very uncomfortable, very much diverted, and the ovations42 she received had put all other wants in her soul to sleep. It was not until she was again in Munich, in the house which he still pervaded43, where she saw him in his characteristic attitudes, heard his mellow44 English voice with its languid drawl and impatient breaks, that her vague sense of loss had grown poignant45. But even that had been tempered before long by a gentle melancholy46, a new sensation and not unpleasant, for the ego47 likes to run the gamut48; and the certainty that he would return to Munich from time to time had further mitigated49 that deep sense of loss. She even hoped, or thought she did, that he would marry well, be delivered of the belittling50 embittering51 want of money; nothing could interfere52 with their friendship, or whatever it was. She, too, was possessed by the uneasy sense that it was something more, but even as the days passed and she finally became restless, more and more disturbed, coming out of her sleep sometimes with a sense of actual terror, she would not permit her thought to enter the analytical53 zone, the word love to rise before the judgment54 seat.
And had it been love? This was the question which now shook her puzzled and tortured brain, and banished55 all hope of sleep. Was it but an imperious pride outraged56, a secure sense of possession shattered, that had lashed57 her into a berserk rage? Vanity, perhaps, that had been fed and watered into an abnormal growth for twenty-four years, first by the power she wielded58 over men, then by the far more heady incense59 of the public,—could that be it, mere36 vanity screaming with rage at this defeat by a silly little American girl? She knew the type, had seen hundreds of them in her many trips to Paris; moreover, she had seen this Mabel Cutting several times during the conspicuous60 beauty’s sojourn61 in Munich, she had sat almost beside her at a performance of Fidelio one night. The girl was beautiful and patrician62, no doubt accomplished63 as girls ran; she was the sort that the American youth was falling in love with every hour, but she was not the girl to bewitch John Ordham, for the type was shallow, vain, soulless, hopelessly unintellectual. If he had fallen a victim to the race, he must have been engineered by very clever women. She knew him well enough to be sure that, left to himself, although he might have thought it best to marry the girl, he never would have fallen in love with her—the real Mabel Cutting—unless something besides gold dust had been thrown into his eyes. There had been extraordinarily64 clever scheming somewhere. She could but guess its nature, but she knew Ordham. His mind had artfully been lulled65, and his mere youth and sex manipulated with the modern sorceries of tact66 and diplomacy67.
And the real Ordham belonged to her. The blood rose to her head once more as she was forced to admit that the fine flower of his awakening68 would not be hers, was irretrievably given to a little fool whom he would hate, not merely tire of, before a year was out.
And this she could have had. She knew it now as she recalled certain moments when she had caught him looking at her with heavy eyes, or a strange stare as of something stirring and quivering in the depths of his being. But she had slurred69 over these dangerous moments, and without so much as a flush of self-consciousness. Not only had she finished with the masculinities, but she was not the woman to want the love she must rouse, engineer, reveal to itself. With all her tyrannous strength of will she was woman personified, and she must be wooed and won imperiously, or she should prefer to love alone.
She ground her teeth and beat the floor with her foot, and reverted70 to the vernacular71 of her youth, as she anathematized her inconsistency, her dog-in-the-manger attitude. Had Ordham appeared before her at that moment, she would not even have considered marriage with him, would have hesitated long before committing herself to the less binding72 relation. Not only had she no desire to wreck73 his career, but she was not sure even now that she should greatly care if she went to her grave without having touched his lips. But he was hers. Inside that charming flesh was a John Ordham that no other woman would ever glimpse, that never would attain74 full growth save in contact with the woman so jealously hidden within her own noncommittal shell.
It was her first definite experience of the sovereign demands of the soul, of the recognition of the ego, that invisible entity75 which makes itself so uncomfortable in its earthly home until released by disease or decay. Were the needs of this God-in-little more lasting76 and determined77 than those of the affections, the body? Infinite, perhaps? In that case what should she do? what should she do?
She paced up and down the room as a new thought tormented78 her. This girl? What were most girls at that age but little fools, particularly if pretty and rich? Had not all women once been silly girls? Suppose this lovely creature, under the tutelage of John Ordham and the brilliant society in which she was to spend her most plastic years, should develop into a clever, intellectual, subtle woman? Then, what of her, Margarethe Styr, a fixture79 in Munich, an outcast from the circles of which this girl would become a component80 part? She stretched out her arms and opened and shut her long flexible hands. If Mabel Cutting had chanced to sing the part of Brang?ne to-night she would have been strangled in view of all Munich. Oh, no doubt of that! It was as well indeed that the young lady was in London.
All these years of proud mental development, of devotion to her art, the abrupt81 but uninterrupted sequence to those terrible forty hours in the bony clutch of death,—all, then, were as naught82? The evil, the appalling83 passions of her nature, were but the stronger for their long sleep. All her new life had done for her was to develop a new sort of love capacity with terrors and torments84 to which the old were but the brief aberrations85 of a superior beast. Love! Love! She had never even guessed the meaning of the word before. She hated Ordham so desperately86 that she would have liked to twist her fingers about his own neck; but again she realized, with a sharp expulsion of the breath, that this was but the upheaval of the volcano’s mud and poisonous gases preceding the liberation of the incandescent87 fires. But while possibly she might not fall into rage again, she must pass through other phases whose mere faint cries for liberty, for birth, terrified her. She was face to face with the greatest of all the mysteries in the always nebulous region of love, an experience known to few, either because they are not developed enough or because they have never met their peer.
She and Ordham were one. He would not appreciate his loss, for he was young, there was too much life before him, too many phases, the prospect89 of greatness which would finally rouse his energies and fill his time. But she, who was close to the summit of her career, for whom art had no mysteries, fame no more surprises, what should she do? what should she do?
But if the woman is sometimes stronger than the artist, the artist never sits long on the dust heap. Already it was whispering that she would act better than ever, she would descend90 into deeper and more intricate recesses91 of human nature when pondering upon her heroines, give the world more complete revelations. Even new forces of expression must be hers. She had never felt so creative as at that moment when she stopped short in her tigerish pacing and laughed aloud at the power of art to make itself heard at such a crisis in the human heart. At that moment, had art possessed a corporeal92 body, it too might have been throttled94.
But it went on whispering: “Cultivate this berserk mood. Do not forget it, do not permit the will to stifle95 it if it fires the brain again. Continue to love this man, the more hopelessly the better. What is mere human passion to art; what, indeed, but its necessary but inferior partner? It is the stimulant96, the drink, the food, the fertilizer. Nurse this! Nurse this!”
And her ambition? Would it not spur that as well? She had been too luxuriously97, too artistically98 content, in this beautiful city, waiting for the world to come to her, content to dream of triumphs in its greater capitals. She had needed a shock, an imperative99 need of change of scene, of conquest of Earth itself to mend her riven soul; she might have idled here until her high notes had turned from gold to brass100.
Her long fingers still twitched101 and curved, her face was as fearful as that of some dark creature of the Middle Ages poisoning a husband or rival; but her clearing brain argued pro9 and con15, rejected personal happiness in favour of her art, finally announced that she still would have rejected it had the choice been hers. Ordham might have wrought102 extraordinary changes in her, but of the two passions that controlled her, that for him was not the stronger.
When she realized this, she went over to the dining room and disposed of the cold supper awaiting her. She had little appetite, but she ate abundantly, nevertheless, even warming the bouillon over the spirit lamp, for she knew that nothing would so certainly drain the blood from her head. When she had finished she returned to the gallery, and lighting103 a cigarette, sat down to think connectedly.
That she had no impulse to go to London and exert her fascinations105 upon Ordham, bring him to his senses, proved to her, that however she might resent his desertion, regret his loss, love him, in short, her mind would never permit her to wreck his career or her own. She had no taste for love in an Italian villa106, idle herself, with an idle man on her hands; she was a worker, an artist; such a life would bore her to extinction107, wither108 those tender and beautiful shoots that had not been blasted by the rain of hot ashes in her mind to-night. What she really wanted was a return of the old conditions, their permanence; and this she had known all along she could not have, known that it was an episode, from every moment of which she had deliberately extracted the full flavour. Did Ordham love and seek her, there were no mortal conditions in which they could unite. Her past life, which would be unearthed109 to the last detail did she seek to enter society as an equal; her present position, so public as to relegate110 a husband to the position of a superior lackey111; that insatiable artistic nine-tenths of her nature,—all precluded112 marriage with any man that respected himself; any permanent tie, in fact. She had exulted113 for eight years in her aloneness, her aloofness114; now was the time to decide that this condition must exist as long as she did. There was nothing for her but art, art, art. She uttered the word aloud in her round sonorous115 voice; she no longer had the least desire to throttle93 it. On the contrary it induced the profoundest sensation of gratitude116 she had ever known. Without it where should she be to-night? Where, indeed?
It occurred to her to wonder that after her life of the past eight years there was any of the original woman left. What a poor half-born thing was civilization, with its educations, its spiritual developments, its thousand magnets for the higher and highly specialized117 centres of the brain, when a really great woman could be overwhelmed by passion like those confidential118 agents of Nature that swarmed119 the earth. If she still was unconscious of any elemental ache for this man, the fact remained that she had acted for an hour or two to-night with the blind primitive fury of a jungle beast deprived of its mate. And—it might be—if she was to continue to love the inner hidden man alone,—that product of the centuries charged with the electrical fascination104 of an uncommon120 personality which had charmed her out of her happy solitude,—she must see as little of him as possible. It was on the cards, that once roused, his progress would be very rapid, his character would overtake his mind. Then, were they thrown together, the real danger would begin. No doubt, one thing that had protected her was that the visible man was too young. She should have felt embarrassed had they taken to love making. But twenty-five is not young for an Englishman, and she might find him very wide awake indeed a year hence.
She made up her mind to correspond with him intermittently121 for a time, then drop him out of her life. She should miss him, ache for him, be forced to plod122 through all the pros88 and cons17 again and again, for it is long before the reiterative123 heart runs down; but her will had carried her through great crises before; she could always rely upon it. And there were worse things than memories to live upon, particularly if radiant enough to put out the ghastly flickers124 of others.
She should overlook no opportunity that would lead her to a broader stage, replete125 with distraction126. There was talk of organizing a Wagner season in New York as a pendant to the regular season of Italian and French opera, for the fame of The Master, thanks to Theodore Thomas, Leopold Damrosch, and other enthusiasts127, was steadily128 growing. She had met Walter Damrosch in Bayreuth; he had heard her sing many times, and no doubt would have approached her for this innovation had it not been for the ten years’ contract she was known to have signed with the Hof-und-National-Theatre in Munich, and the King’s personal objection that she should leave Munich for more than a few weeks at a time. If this coming season of German opera was successful, she should write to Damrosch and announce her willingness to break her contract if unable to obtain a leave of absence. It was probable that by that time the King would be wholly mad; in that case her enemies in the Hof would be her allies for once. The only shadow on this brilliant future was the possible confiscation129 of her villa did she summarily leave without permission. That would substitute one unhappiness for another, for she passionately130 loved the only home she had ever had, and believed that the acuteness of its later associations would mellow with time. Well, she had her friends, Princess Nachmeister among others. Let the future take care of itself. Meanwhile she should demand other r?les here: the revival131 of the great operas of Glück—Alceste, Ifigénie en Tauride, Orfeo ed Euridice. She would sing the great r?le of Dido in The Trojan. All would afford her fine dramatic opportunities and fill her time with work.
She went to her desk to write to Ordham. The temptation was strong to betray something of what she felt. He deserved that! And a sentimental132 letter, that last indulgence, was a woman’s right. But she did nothing of the sort, reflecting in time that a man is not open to sentiment from two sources at once, particularly when in the throes of his puppy love. She did not even address the man she knew so well, and whom Mabel Cutting did not know at all, for she felt quite positive that he was sound asleep. She wrote him a dignified133 friendly note, telling him that she had long been prepared for the news, and was sure that he had chosen wisely. She did not even insert a blunt sting here and there, for she knew him so well that she could write exactly what, in his present mood, he most would wish to receive from her. When it was finished, she found her first real consolation134 in visualizing135 it as an impenetrable bulwark136 about her pride. She thanked her stars that he had not come in person to tell her of his engagement, permitting her to divine his passion for the little fool. No doubt she would have beaten him, and he would have been too polite to beat her in return! Heaven! what a mess she would have made of it. She devoutly137 hoped she had buried Peggy Hill five fathoms138 deep at last.
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1
automaton
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| n.自动机器，机器人 | |
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expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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cabal
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| n.政治阴谋小集团 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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pro
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| n.赞成，赞成的意见，赞成者 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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cons
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| n.欺骗，骗局( con的名词复数 )v.诈骗，哄骗( con的第三人称单数 ) | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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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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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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upheaval
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| n.胀起，(地壳)的隆起；剧变，动乱 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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ovations
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| n.热烈欢迎( ovation的名词复数 ) | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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gamut
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| n.全音阶，(一领域的)全部知识 | |
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mitigated
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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belittling
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| 使显得微小，轻视，贬低( belittle的现在分词 ) | |
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51
embittering
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的现在分词 ) | |
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52
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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analytical
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| adj.分析的；用分析法的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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55
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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58
wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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60
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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61
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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62
patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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63
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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64
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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65
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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66
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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67
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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68
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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69
slurred
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| 含糊地说出( slur的过去式和过去分词 )； 含糊地发…的声； 侮辱； 连唱 | |
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70
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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71
vernacular
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| adj.地方的，用地方语写成的；n.白话；行话；本国语；动植物的俗名 | |
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72
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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73
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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74
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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75
entity
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| n.实体，独立存在体，实际存在物 | |
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76
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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77
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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78
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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79
fixture
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| n.固定设备；预定日期；比赛时间；定期存款 | |
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80
component
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| n.组成部分，成分，元件；adj.组成的，合成的 | |
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81
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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82
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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83
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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84
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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85
aberrations
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| n.偏差( aberration的名词复数 )；差错；脱离常规；心理失常 | |
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86
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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87
incandescent
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| adj.遇热发光的， 白炽的，感情强烈的 | |
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pros
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| abbr.prosecuting 起诉；prosecutor 起诉人；professionals 自由职业者；proscenium （舞台）前部n.赞成的意见( pro的名词复数 )；赞成的理由；抵偿物；交换物 | |
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89
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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90
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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91
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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92
corporeal
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| adj.肉体的，身体的；物质的 | |
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93
throttle
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| n.节流阀，节气阀，喉咙；v.扼喉咙，使窒息，压 | |
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94
throttled
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| v.扼杀( throttle的过去式和过去分词 )；勒死；使窒息；压制 | |
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95
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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96
stimulant
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| n.刺激物，兴奋剂 | |
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97
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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98
artistically
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| adv.艺术性地 | |
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99
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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100
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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101
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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102
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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103
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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104
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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105
fascinations
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| n.魅力( fascination的名词复数 )；有魅力的东西；迷恋；陶醉 | |
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106
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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107
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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108
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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109
unearthed
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| 出土的（考古） | |
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110
relegate
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| v.使降级，流放，移交，委任 | |
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111
lackey
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| n.侍从；跟班 | |
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112
precluded
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| v.阻止( preclude的过去式和过去分词 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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113
exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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115
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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116
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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117
specialized
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| adj.专门的，专业化的 | |
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118
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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119
swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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120
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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121
intermittently
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| adv.间歇地；断断续续 | |
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122
plod
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| v.沉重缓慢地走，孜孜地工作 | |
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123
reiterative
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| 反复说的，重申的 | |
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124
flickers
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| 电影制片业； （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的名词复数 ) | |
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125
replete
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| adj.饱满的，塞满的；n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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126
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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127
enthusiasts
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| n.热心人，热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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128
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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129
confiscation
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| n. 没收, 充公, 征收 | |
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130
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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131
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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132
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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133
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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134
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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135
visualizing
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| 肉眼观察 | |
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136
bulwark
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| n.堡垒，保障，防御 | |
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137
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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138
fathoms
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| 英寻( fathom的名词复数 ) | |
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