Merivale kept on playing for a minute or two, unaware3 of my intrusion. Not till it behooved4 him to turn the page did he lift his eyes. Then, encountering my night-robed figure,they lighted up with merriment. Their owner lowered his instrument, remained silent for a moment, in the end gave vent5 to an uproarious peal6 of laughter.
“What are you laughing at?” I stammered7.
When he had got his hilarity9 somewhat under control he replied: “At you. Come and gaze upon yourself.” And conducting me to a mirror he said, pointing, “There, isn’t that a funny sight?”
I looked sleepy, that was all. My hair was awry10, and my eyes were heavy, and my costume was a trifle wrinkled. Still, I suppose, my general appearance was sufficiently11 ludicrous. Be that as it may, I could not help joining in Merivale’s laughter: and, thus put into good humor at the outset, I cheerfully complied with his request to hasten through my toilet and “come and fiddle12 with him.”
“Let’s start here,” he said, opening the book.
We read for a while in concert. As usual my arm seemed to swing of its separate will, I myself becoming all but comatose13. By and by I perceived that Merivale had discontinued and was seated at one side with his instrument upon his knees. Then I perceived that I was no longer following the book. I closed my eyes and listened. As usual I heard the voice of my violin very much as though some other person had been the performer.
I found that I was playing a lot of bits from memory. I heard the light, quick tread of a gavotte which I had learned as a boy and meantime almost forgotten; I heard snatches from the chants the Chazzan sings in the synagogue; I heard the Flower Song from Faust mixing itself up with a recitative from Lohengrin. Then I heard the passionate14 wail15 of Chopin become predominant: the exquisite16 melody of the Berceuse, motives17 from Les Polonaises, and at length the impromptu18 in C-sharp minor19—that to which I have alluded20 in the early part of this narrative21, as descriptive of Veronika. Following it, came the songs that Veronika herself had been most prone22 to sing, Bizet, Pergolese, Schumann, morsels23 of German folk liede, old French romances. And ever and anon that phrase from the impromptu kept recurring24. Every thing else seemed to lead up to it. It terminated a brilliant passage by Liszt. It cropped out in the middle of a theme from the Meistersinger. And with its every new recurrence25, the picture of Veronika which it pre sented to my imagination grew more life-like and palpable, until ere long it was almost as though I saw her standing26 near me in substantial objective form. As I have said, I scarcely realized that it was I who played. Except for the sensation along my wrist as the bow bit the catgut, I believe I should have quite forgotten it. But now abruptly28, without the least volition29 upon my part, my arm acquired a fresh vigor30. The voice of my violin increased in volume. The character of the music underwent a change. From a medley31 of fragments it turned to a coherent, continuous whole. Note succeeded note in natural and inevitable32 sequence. I tried to recognize the composition. I could not. It was quite unfamiliar33 to me. Odd, because of course at some time I must have practiced it again and again. Otherwise how had I been able to play it now? It flowed from the strings34 without hitch35 or hesitancy. Yet my best efforts to place it were ineffectual. Doubly odd, because it was no ordinary composition. It had a striking individuality of its own.
It began with laughter-provoking scherzo, as dainty as the pattering of April rain-drops, as riotous36 as the frolicking of children let loose from school; which, by degrees tempering to a quieter allegro37, presently modulated38 into the minor, and necessarily, therefore, became plaintive39 and sentimental40. For a while bar succeeded bar, fitful and undetermined, as if groping blindly for a climax41. Next, a quick, fluttering crescendo42, and an exultant43 major chord. This completed the first movement. The second began pianissimo upon the A and E strings, an allegretto full of placid44 contentment; again, a minor modulation45; again, blind groping for a climax, this time more strenuous46 than before, tinged47 by a passion, impelled48 by an insatiable desire; adagio49 on G and D, still minor; then a swift return to major, a leap of the bow and fingers back to A and E, and on these latter strings a rhapsody expressive50 of the utmost possible human joy. Third movement andante, sober but still joyous51; the music, which hitherto had been restless and destitute52 of an apparent aim, seemed to have caught a purpose, to have gained substance and confidence in itself.
It proceeded in this wise for several periods, when sharply, without the faintest warning, it broke into a discordant53 shriek54 of laughter, the laughter of a demon55 whose evil designs had triumphed.
Though I had not recognized the composition, up to this point I had understood it perfectly56. Its intrinsic lucidity57 carried the intelligence along. But henceforward I was mystified. The reason for the violent change of theme, time, and quality, I could not divine; nor could I appreciate, either, how the subsequent effects were produced or what they were meant to signify. My impression was, as I have said, that the laughter which my violin seemed to be echoing was demoniac laughter, the outburst of a Satan over his success, of a Succubus fastening upon his prey58. Yet the next instant I was doubtful whether it was indeed laughter at all? Was it not perhaps the hysterical59 sobbing60 of a human being frenzied61 by grief? And again the next instant neither of these conceptions appeared to be the correct one. Was it not rather a chorus?—a chorus of witches?—plotting some fiendish atrocity62?—chuckling over a vicious pleasantry?—now, whispering amicably63 together, now wrangling64 ferociously65, now uniting in blood-curdling screams of delight? Whatever it might be, I could not penetrate66 its sense. I listened with deepening perplexity. I wished it would come to an end. But it did not occur to me to stop my arm and lay aside my bow. The music went on and on—until Merivale caught me by the shoulder and snatched my violin from my grasp. He was speaking.
The descent back to earth was too abrupt27. It took me some time to gather myself together. “Eh—what were you saying?” I asked at last.
“I was saying, stop! Consider a fellow’s nervous system. Where in the name of Lucifer did you learn that infernal music? Whom is it by?”
“Oh,” I answered, “oh, I don’t know whom it is by.”
“It out-Berliozes Berlioz,” he added. “Is it his?”
“Perhaps. I don’t remember. I am tired. Let me rest a moment without talking.”
“Well,” he continued, “it was a terrible strain to listen to it. I am quite played out—feel as if—forgive the comparison—as if I had spent the last hour in a dentist’s chair. However, for relief’s sake, let’s go to dinner. Are you aware that we haven’t eaten any thing since early morning?”
After dinner Merivale insisted that we should take a long walk “to shake out the kinks,” and after the long walk we were tired enough to return to our pillows.
I went straight to sleep; but my sleep was troubled. As soon as Merivale had said goodnight and extinguished the gas, memory began to repeat the music I had played. I heard it throughout my sleep. Every little while I would wake up and try to banish67 it by fixing my attention on other matters. But it kept thrumming away in my brain despite myself. I could not silence it. Merivale’s reference to a dentist’s chair was, if inelegant, at least a graphic68 one. I got as hopelessly irritated as I could have done with a score of dentists simultaneously69 grinding at my teeth. My very arteries70 seemed to be beating to its rhythm.
In one fit of wakefulness, that lasted longer than its predecessors71 had done, I found myself unconsciously tattooing72 it upon the wall at my bed’s head.
“Is that you?” Merivale’s voice demanded from out of the darkness.
“Yes,” I replied. “Aren’t you asleep?”
“Mercy, no. That music you played—or rather, stray fragments of it, keep running through my brain. I haven’t been able to sleep for a long while.”
“That’s singular. It affects me the same way. I was just drumming it on the wall. I’ve been trying to get rid of it all night.”
“It has wonderful staying powers, for a fact. I’m glad you’re awake, though. Companionship in misery73 is sweet.”
“Yes, I also feel rather more comfortable now that you have spoken. Do you know, it’s an immense puzzle to me, that music? I can’t imagine where or when I ever learned it. And yet it is not the sort of thing one would be apt to forget. I can’t recognize the style even, can’t get a clew to the composer.”
“The style is emphatically that of Berlioz.”
“Perhaps so. But it can’t be by Berlioz, because I never learned any thing by Berlioz at all.”
“Hum!” A pause. Then, “Say, Lexow—”
“Well?”
“It isn’t possible that it’s original, is it?”
“Original? How do you mean?”
“Why, an improvisation—a little thing of your own.”
“Oh, no; oh, no, I never improvise74—at least an entire composition, like that. Nobody does. It bears all the marks of careful workmanship. It must be something well-known that has temporarily slipped from my memory. It’s too striking not to be well-known. Tomorrow I’ll go through my music and find it; and I’ll wager75 it will turn out to be quite familiar. Only, it’s extremely odd that I can’t place it.”
“Why wait till to-morrow?”
“Why, we can’t begin to-night, can we?”
“Why not? I say, let’s begin right off. The cursed thing is keeping us awake, and there doesn’t seem to be any escape from it. We may as well utilize76 our wakefulness, as lie here doing nothing but toss about. I say, let’s light the gas and go to work.”
“Oh, well, I’m agreeable. The sooner the better as far as I’m concerned.”
“Good,” cried Merivale.
He sprang out of bed and lighted the gas.
“Shall Mahomet go to the mountain or shall the mountain come to Mahomet?” he inquired, blinking his eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean shall we dress and adjourn77 to the other room? Or shall I bring your musical library in here, so that we can conduct our investigation78 without getting up?”
“Just as you please,” I answered.
“Well, we’ll move the mountain, then,” he said, and left the room.
He made two or three trips, back and forth79, bearing an armful of music as the fruit of each. The last folios deposited on the floor, “Now, as to method,” he inquired, “how shall we start? It will occupy us till doom’s-day if we undertake to go through the whole of this. I suppose there are some composers we can eliminate 脿 priori, eh?”
“Oh, yes; Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Wagner, Liszt, in particular, we needn’t trouble with. I’d keep an especially sharp eye out for Ruben-stein and Dvorak and Winiauski. It’s fortunate that I’ve preserved all the music I’ve ever owned. We can’t miss it if we’re only patient enough.”
“Well, here goes,” he cried, thrusting a thick pile of music into my hands, and apportioning80 an equal amount to himself.
We were industrious81. It is needless that I should tarry with the incidents of our search. At daybreak we had not yet quite finished, and we had not yet struck any thing that bore the slightest resemblance to the composition in question.
“But little remains,” said Merivale. “In another five minutes we will have found it; or my first hypothesis was true.”
“Your first hypothesis?” I inquired.
“Yes—that it was original—a lucubration of your own.”
“Oh, that, I tell you, isn’t possible. I’m not vain enough to imagine that I could improvise in such style, thank you.”
“Well, we won’t enter into a dispute, at any rate not till our present line of investigation is exhausted82. Back to the saddle!”
For a space we were silent.
“Eh bien, mon brave!” cried Merivale at length. “There goes the last of my half,” and he sent a sheet of music fluttering through the air.
“And here is the last of mine,” I responded, laying down Schumann’s Warum.
“And we are still in the dark.”
“Still in the dark.”
“It isn’t possible that we have overlooked it?”
“I’m sure I haven’t. I took pains with each separate page.”
“Likewise, I! Therefore. I congratulate you. I’ll order a laurel wreath at the florist’s, the first thing after breakfast.”
“Nonsense! How many times need I tell you that I could not by hook or crook83 have made it up as I went along? The mere8 notion is ridiculous. It must have got lost, that’s all.”
“On the contrary, the notion that you once learned it, then forgot it, then played it off without a fault from beginning to end, is trebly ridiculous. It was ridiculous of us to waste our time hunting for it, also. I am entirely84 convinced that it is yours. Why not? Ideas have come to other people—why not to you? Yesterday while you played, you were excited and wrought85 up, and the result was that you had an inspiration. By Jove, you’re lucky! It’s enough to make you famous.”
“But, Merivale, fancy the absurdities86 you are uttering. Do you seriously suppose anybody—even a regular composer—could take up his fiddle and reel off a complicated thing like that without once halting? Why, man, there are four or five distinct movements. You might as well pretend that a mere elocutionist could write an intricate epic87 poem without once pausing to make an erasure88 or find a rhyme, as that I, a simple instrumentalist, could have done this.”
“Well, there’s only oneway of settling the matter. We’ll refer it to an authority. You jot89 down a few specimen90 bars on paper, and I’ll submit it to your friend, Dr. Rodolph. Of course he will identify it at once, if it isn’t yours.”
“If that will satisfy you, well and good,” I assented91.
In the course of the forenoon, Merivale, having procured92 a stock of music-paper at a shop in the neighborhood, said, “I don’t know how rapidly a man can write music, but if it isn’t too slow work, I’d seriously counsel you to put down the whole thing, while you’re about it. In fact I’d counsel you to do so any how. If by hazard it is original, you know, you’d better make a memorandum93 of it while it’s still fresh in your mind. Otherwise you might forget it. That often happens to me. A bright idea, a felicitous94 turn of phraseology, occurs to me when I’m away somewhere—in the horse-cars, at the theater, paying a call, or what-not—and if I don’t make an instant minute of it in my note-book, it’s sure to fly off and never be heard from again.”
“We’ll see,” I returned. “I haven’t written a bar of music for such a long while that I don’t know how hard I shall find it. But I used to make a daily practice of writing from memory, because it increases one’s facility for sight-reading.”
I hummed the first two or three phrases softly to myself, beating time with my fingers; then drew up to the writing-table and commenced to set them down. At the outset I had considerable difficulty, was obliged, so to speak, to spell my way along note by note, and committed several blunders which I had to go back to and correct. But gradually my path grew smoother and smoother, until I was no longer conscious of effort; and at last I became so much absorbed and so much interested by what I was doing, that my hand sped across the paper like a machine performing the regular function for which it was contrived95. I suppose mental activity always begets96 mental exhilaration; and that mental exhilaration in turn, when allowed to attain97 too high a pitch, always approaches the borderland of its antipode, on the principle that extremes meet. At any rate such was my experience in the present instance. At first, both mind and fingers were sluggish98 and moved laboriously99. Then mind got into running order, and fingers lagged behind; then fingers caught up with mind, and for a while the two kept pace; then, finally, fingers spurted100 ahead and it was mind’s turn to acknowledge itself left in the rear. Mental exhilaration gave place to bewilderment, as I saw that my hand was forging along faster than my thought could dictate101, in apparent obedience102 to an independent will of its own—which bewilderment ripened103 into thoroughgoing mystification, as the hand dashed forward and back like a shuttle in a loom104, with a velocity105 that seemed ever to be increasing. I had precisely106 the sensation of a man who has started to run down a hill, and whose legs have acquired such a momentum107 that he can not stop them: on and on he must submit to be borne until some outside obstacle interferes108, even though a yawning chasm109 await him at the bottom. Toward the end I scarcely saw the paper on which I was writing; I am sure I saw nothing of the matter that I wrote. I said to myself, “Of course you will find that all this stuff is incoherent and meaningless when you get through.” But I waited passively till my hand should get through of its own accord, I made no endeavor to draw the rein110 upon it. Eventually it came to a standstill with a round turn. I was quite winded. I needed leisure in which to recover my equilibrium111.
Merivale—of whose presence I had become oblivious—crossed over and began gathering112 the scattered113 sheets of paper from the table. The sight of him helped to bring me to myself.
“Well,” I said, “there it is. I don’t suppose you can read it. I got so excited I hardly knew what I was about.”
“That’s all right,” he answered reassuringly114. “I’m much obliged to you for the trouble you’ve taken. But what,” he added abruptly, “but what is all this that you have written?”
“Why, what do you fancy? The music, of course, that you asked me to.”
“No, no; I mean this writing, this text, with which you have wound up?”
“Writing? Text? What are you driving at?”
“Why, here—this,” he said handing me the paper.
“Mercy upon me!” I exclaimed, thoroughly115 amazed. “I was not aware that I had written any thing.”
The last half dozen pages were covered with written words—blotted, scrawling116, scarcely decipherable, but unmistakably written words.
“Well, certainly, this is most astonishing. Whatever it is, I have written it unawares.”
I dropped the manuscript and leaned back in my chair, dumbfounded by this latest development.
“Here,” said Merivale, “is the point where the music ends and the words begin.”
The music ended, the words began, just at that point where last night the shriek of malevolent117 laughter had interfered118 with the current of melody. From that point to the bottom of the last page not another bar of music was discernible—not a note of the incomprehensible witches’ chorus—simply words, words that I dared not read.
“This is magic, this is ghost-work,” I said. “It appalls119 me. Look at it, Merivale. Does it make sense? Or is it simply a mass of scribbling120 without rhyme or reason?”
“Ye-es,” rejoined Merivale slowly, “it seems to make sense. The penmanship is pretty blind, but the words appear to hang together. It begins, ‘I walked re—re—reluctantly’—next word very bad—’I walked reluctantly—reluctantly—away’—oh yes, that’s it—’away—from the house. By Jove, this is singular! Shall I go on?”
“Yes, go on,” I said faintly. There was panic in my heart.
Merivale continued, picking his way laboriously. The following is what he read.
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1
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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behooved
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| v.适宜( behoove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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comatose
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| adj.昏睡的，昏迷不醒的 | |
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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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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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morsels
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| n.一口( morsel的名词复数 )；（尤指食物）小块，碎屑 | |
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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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recurrence
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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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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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volition
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| n.意志；决意 | |
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vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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medley
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| n.混合 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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allegro
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| adj. 快速而活泼的；n.快板；adv.活泼地 | |
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modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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crescendo
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| n.(音乐)渐强，高潮 | |
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exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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modulation
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| n.调制 | |
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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
adagio
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| adj.缓慢的；n.柔板；慢板；adv.缓慢地 | |
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50
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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51
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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52
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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53
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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54
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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55
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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56
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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57
lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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58
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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59
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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61
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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62
atrocity
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| n.残暴，暴行 | |
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63
amicably
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| adv.友善地 | |
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64
wrangling
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的现在分词 ) | |
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65
ferociously
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| 野蛮地，残忍地 | |
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66
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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67
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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68
graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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69
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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70
arteries
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| n.动脉( artery的名词复数 )；干线，要道 | |
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71
predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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72
tattooing
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| n.刺字，文身v.刺青，文身( tattoo的现在分词 )；连续有节奏地敲击；作连续有节奏的敲击 | |
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73
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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74
improvise
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| v.即兴创作；临时准备，临时凑成 | |
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75
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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76
utilize
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| vt.使用，利用 | |
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adjourn
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| v.（使）休会，（使）休庭 | |
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78
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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apportioning
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| vt.分摊，分配（apportion的现在分词形式） | |
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81
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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83
crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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84
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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85
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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88
erasure
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| n.擦掉，删去；删掉的词；消音；抹音 | |
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89
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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felicitous
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| adj.恰当的，巧妙的；n.恰当，贴切 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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begets
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| v.为…之生父( beget的第三人称单数 )；产生，引起 | |
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97
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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98
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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spurted
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| （液体，火焰等）喷出，（使）涌出( spurt的过去式和过去分词 )； （短暂地）加速前进，冲刺 | |
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101
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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102
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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103
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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105
velocity
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| n.速度，速率 | |
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106
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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107
momentum
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| n.动力，冲力，势头；动量 | |
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108
interferes
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| vi. 妨碍，冲突，干涉 | |
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109
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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110
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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111
equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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112
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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113
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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114
reassuringly
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| ad.安心，可靠 | |
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115
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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116
scrawling
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的现在分词 ) | |
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117
malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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118
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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119
appalls
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的第三人称单数 ) | |
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120
scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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