"How much, methinks, I could despise this man Were I not bound in charity against it! --SHAKESPEARE: Henry VIII.
One of the professional calls made by Lydgate soon after his return from his wedding-journey was to Lowick Manor1, in consequence of a letter which had requested him to fix a time for his visit.
Mr. Casaubon had never put any question concerning the nature of his illness to Lydgate, nor had he even to Dorothea betrayed any anxiety as to how far it might be likely to cut short his labors2 or his life. On this point, as on all others, he shrank from pity; and if the suspicion of being pitied for anything in his lot surmised3 or known in spite of himself was embittering4, the idea of calling forth5 a show of compassion6 by frankly7 admitting an alarm or a sorrow was necessarily intolerable to him. Every proud mind knows something of this experience, and perhaps it is only to be overcome by a sense of fellowship deep enough to make all efforts at isolation8 seem mean and petty instead of exalting9.
But Mr. Casaubon was now brooding over something through which the question of his health and life haunted his silence with a more harassing10 importunity11 even than through the autumnal unripeness12 of his authorship. It is true that this last might be called his central ambition; but there are some kinds of authorship in which by far the largest result is the uneasy susceptibility accumulated in the consciousness of the author--one knows of the river by a few streaks13 amid a long-gathered deposit of uncomfortable mud. That was the way with Mr. Casaubon's hard intellectual labors. Their most characteristic result was not the "Key to all Mythologies," but a morbid14 consciousness that others did not give him the place which he had not demonstrably merited--a perpetual suspicious conjecture15 that the views entertained of him were not to his advantage-- a melancholy16 absence of passion in his efforts at achievement, and a passionate17 resistance to the confession18 that he had achieved nothing.
Thus his intellectual ambition which seemed to others to have absorbed and dried him, was really no security against wounds, least of all against those which came from Dorothea. And he had begun now to frame possibilities for the future which were somehow more embittering to him than anything his mind had dwelt on before.
Against certain facts he was helpless: against Will Ladislaw's existence, his defiant19 stay in the neighborhood of Lowick, and his flippant state of mind with regard to the possessors of authentic20, well-stamped erudition: against Dorothea's nature, always taking on some new shape of ardent21 activity, and even in submission22 and silence covering fervid23 reasons which it was an irritation24 to think of: against certain notions and likings which had taken possession of her mind in relation to subjects that he could not possibly discuss with her. "There was no denying that Dorothea was as virtuous25 and lovely a young lady as he could have obtained for a wife; but a young lady turned out to be something more troublesome than he had conceived. She nursed him, she read to him, she anticipated his wants, and was solicitous26 about his feelings; but there had entered into the husband's mind the certainty that she judged him, and that her wifely devotedness27 was like a penitential expiation28 of unbelieving thoughts--was accompanied with a power of comparison by which himself and his doings were seen too luminously29 as a part of things in general. His discontent passed vapor-like through all her gentle loving manifestations30, and clung to that inappreciative world which she had only brought nearer to him.
Poor Mr. Casaubon! This suffering was the harder to bear because it seemed like a betrayal: the young creature who had worshipped him with perfect trust had quickly turned into the critical wife; and early instances of criticism and resentment31 had made an impression which no tenderness and submission afterwards could remove. To his suspicious interpretation32 Dorothea's silence now was a suppressed rebellion; a remark from her which he had not in any way anticipated was an assertion of conscious superiority; her gentle answers had an irritating cautiousness in them; and when she acquiesced33 it was a self-approved effort of forbearance. The tenacity34 with which he strove to hide this inward drama made it the more vivid for him; as we hear with the more keenness what we wish others not to hear.
Instead of wondering at this result of misery35 in Mr. Casaubon, I think it quite ordinary. Will not a tiny speck36 very close to our vision blot37 out the glory of the world, and leave only a margin38 by which we see the blot? I know no speck so troublesome as self. And who, if Mr. Casaubon had chosen to expound39 his discontents-- his suspicions that he was not any longer adored without criticism-- could have denied that they were founded on good reasons? On the contrary, there was a strong reason to be added, which he had not himself taken explicitly40 into account--namely, that he was not unmixedly adorable. He suspected this, however, as he suspected other things, without confessing it, and like the rest of us, felt how soothing41 it would have been to have a companion who would never find it out.
This sore susceptibility in relation to Dorothea was thoroughly42 prepared before Will Ladislaw had returned to Lowick, and what had occurred since then had brought Mr. Casaubon's power of suspicious construction into exasperated43 activity. To all the facts which he knew, he added imaginary facts both present and future which became more real to him than those because they called up a stronger dislike, a more predominating bitterness. Suspicion and jealousy44 of Will Ladislaw's intentions, suspicion and jealousy of Dorothea's impressions, were constantly at their weaving work. It would be quite unjust to him to suppose that he could have entered into any coarse misinterpretation of Dorothea: his own habits of mind and conduct, quite as much as the open elevation46 of her nature, saved him from any such mistake. What he was jealous of was her opinion, the sway that might be given to her ardent mind in its judgments47, and the future possibilities to which these might lead her. As to Will, though until his last defiant letter he had nothing definite which he would choose formally to allege48 against him, he felt himself warranted in believing that he was capable of any design which could fascinate a rebellious49 temper and an undisciplined impulsiveness50. He was quite sure that Dorothea was the cause of Will's return from Rome, and his determination to settle in the neighborhood; and he was penetrating51 enough to imagine that Dorothea had innocently encouraged this course. It was as clear as possible that she was ready to be attached to Will and to be pliant52 to his suggestions: they had never had a tete-a-tete without her bringing away from it some new troublesome impression, and the last interview that Mr. Casaubon was aware of (Dorothea, on returning from Freshitt Hall, had for the first time been silent about having seen Will) had led to a scene which roused an angrier feeling against them both than he had ever known before. Dorothea's outpouring of her notions about money, in the darkness of the night, had done nothing but bring a mixture of more odious53 foreboding into her husband's mind.
And there was the shock lately given to his health always sadly present with him. He was certainly much revived; he had recovered all his usual power of work: the illness might have been mere54 fatigue55, and there might still be twenty years of achievement before him, which would justify56 the thirty years of preparation. That prospect57 was made the sweeter by a flavor of vengeance58 against the hasty sneers59 of Carp & Company; for even when Mr. Casaubon was carrying his taper60 among the tombs of the past, those modern figures came athwart the dim light, and interrupted his diligent61 exploration. To convince Carp of his mistake, so that he would have to eat his own words with a good deal of indigestion, would be an agreeable accident of triumphant62 authorship, which the prospect of living to future ages on earth and to all eternity63 in heaven could not exclude from contemplation. Since, thus, the prevision of his own unending bliss64 could not nullify the bitter savors65 of irritated jealousy and vindictiveness66, it is the less surprising that the probability of a transient earthly bliss for other persons, when he himself should have entered into glory, had not a potently67 sweetening effect. If the truth should be that some undermining disease was at work within him, there might be large opportunity for some people to be the happier when he was gone; and if one of those people should be Will Ladislaw, Mr. Casaubon objected so strongly that it seemed as if the annoyance68 would make part of his disembodied existence.
This is a very bare and therefore a very incomplete way of putting the case. The human soul moves in many channels, and Mr. Casaubon, we know, had a sense of rectitude and an honorable pride in satisfying the requirements of honor, which compelled him to find other reasons for his conduct than those of jealousy and vindictiveness. The way in which Mr. Casaubon put the case was this:--"In marrying Dorothea Brooke I had to care for her well-being69 in case of my death. But well-being is not to be secured by ample, independent possession of property; on the contrary, occasions might arise in which such possession might expose her to the more danger. She is ready prey70 to any man who knows how to play adroitly71 either on her affectionate ardor72 or her Quixotic enthusiasm; and a man stands by with that very intention in his mind--a man with no other principle than transient caprice, and who has a personal animosity towards me-- I am sure of it--an animosity which is fed by the consciousness of his ingratitude73, and which he has constantly vented74 in ridicule75 of which I am as well assured as if I had heard it. Even if I live I shall not be without uneasiness as to what he may attempt through indirect influence. This man has gained Dorothea's ear: he has fascinated her attention; he has evidently tried to impress her mind with the notion that he has claims beyond anything I have done for him. If I die--and he is waiting here on the watch for that-- he will persuade her to marry him. That would be calamity76 for her and success for him. _She_ would not think it calamity: he would make her believe anything; she has a tendency to immoderate attachment77 which she inwardly reproaches me for not responding to, and already her mind is occupied with his fortunes. He thinks of an easy conquest and of entering into my nest. That I will hinder! Such a marriage would be fatal to Dorothea. Has he ever persisted in anything except from contradiction? In knowledge he has always tried to be showy at small cost. In religion he could be, as long as it suited him, the facile echo of Dorothea's vagaries78. When was sciolism ever dissociated from laxity? I utterly79 distrust his morals, and it is my duty to hinder to the utmost the fulfilment of his designs."
The arrangements made by Mr. Casaubon on his marriage left strong measures open to him, but in ruminating80 on them his mind inevitably81 dwelt so much on the probabilities of his own life that the longing82 to get the nearest possible calculation had at last overcome his proud reticence83, and had determined84 him to ask Lydgate's opinion as to the nature of his illness.
He had mentioned to Dorothea that Lydgate was coming by appointment at half-past three, and in answer to her anxious question, whether he had felt ill, replied,--"No, I merely wish to have his opinion concerning some habitual85 symptoms. You need not see him, my dear. I shall give orders that he may be sent to me in the Yew-tree Walk, where I shall be taking my usual exercise."
When Lydgate entered the Yew-tree Walk he saw Mr. Casaubon slowly receding86 with his hands behind him according to his habit, and his head bent87 forward. It was a lovely afternoon; the leaves from the lofty limes were falling silently across the sombre evergreens88, while the lights and shadows slept side by side: there was no sound but the cawing of the rooks, which to the accustomed ear is a lullaby, or that last solemn lullaby, a dirge89. Lydgate, conscious of an energetic frame in its prime, felt some compassion when the figure which he was likely soon to overtake turned round, and in advancing towards him showed more markedly than ever the signs of premature90 age--the student's bent shoulders, the emaciated91 limbs, and the melancholy lines of the mouth. "Poor fellow," he thought, "some men with his years are like lions; one can tell nothing of their age except that they are full grown."
"Mr. Lydgate," said Mr. Casaubon, with his invariably polite air, "I am exceedingly obliged to you for your punctuality. We will, if you please, carry on our conversation in walking to and fro."
"I hope your wish to see me is not due to the return of unpleasant symptoms," said Lydgate, filling up a pause.
"Not immediately--no. In order to account for that wish I must mention-- what it were otherwise needless to refer to--that my life, on all collateral93 accounts insignificant94, derives95 a possible importance from the incompleteness of labors which have extended through all its best years. In short, I have long had on hand a work which I would fain leave behind me in such a state, at least, that it might be committed to the press by--others. Were I assured that this is the utmost I can reasonably expect, that assurance would be a useful circumscription96 of my attempts, and a guide in both the positive and negative determination of my course."
Here Mr. Casaubon paused, removed one hand from his back and thrust it between the buttons of his single-breasted coat. To a mind largely instructed in the human destiny hardly anything could be more interesting than the inward conflict implied in his formal measured address, delivered with the usual sing-song and motion of the head. Nay97, are there many situations more sublimely99 tragic100 than the struggle of the soul with the demand to renounce101 a work which has been all the significance of its life--a significance which is to vanish as the waters which come and go where no man has need of them? But there was nothing to strike others as sublime98 about Mr. Casaubon, and Lydgate, who had some contempt at hand for futile102 scholarship, felt a little amusement mingling103 with his pity. He was at present too ill acquainted with disaster to enter into the pathos104 of a lot where everything is below the level of tragedy except the passionate egoism of the sufferer.
"You refer to the possible hindrances105 from want of health?" he said, wishing to help forward Mr. Casaubon's purpose, which seemed to be clogged106 by some hesitation107.
"I do. You have not implied to me that the symptoms which-- I am bound to testify--you watched with scrupulous108 care, were those of a fatal disease. But were it so, Mr. Lydgate, I should desire to know the truth without reservation, and I appeal to you for an exact statement of your conclusions: I request it as a friendly service. If you can tell me that my life is not threatened by anything else than ordinary casualties, I shall rejoice, on grounds which I have already indicated. If not, knowledge of the truth is even more important to me."
"Then I can no longer hesitate as to my course," said Lydgate; "but the first thing I must impress on you is that my conclusions are doubly uncertain--uncertain not only because of my fallibility, but because diseases of the heart are eminently109 difficult to found predictions on. In any ease, one can hardly increase appreciably110 the tremendous uncertainty111 of life."
Mr. Casaubon winced112 perceptibly, but bowed.
"I believe that you are suffering from what is called fatty degeneration of the heart, a disease which was first divined and explored by Laennec, the man who gave us the stethoscope, not so very many years ago. A good deal of experience--a more lengthened113 observation--is wanting on the subject. But after what you have said, it is my duty to tell you that death from this disease is often sudden. At the same time, no such result can be predicted. Your condition may be consistent with a tolerably comfortable life for another fifteen years, or even more. I could add no information to this beyond anatomical or medical details, which would leave expectation at precisely114 the same point." Lydgate's instinct was fine enough to tell him that plain speech, quite free from ostentatious caution, would be felt by Mr. Casaubon as a tribute of respect.
"I thank you, Mr. Lydgate," said Mr. Casaubon, after a moment's pause. "One thing more I have still to ask: did you communicate what you have now told me to Mrs. Casaubon?"
"Partly--I mean, as to the possible issues." Lydgate was going to explain why he had told Dorothea, but Mr. Casaubon, with an unmistakable desire to end the conversation, waved his hand slightly, and said again, "I thank you," proceeding115 to remark on the rare beauty of the day.
Lydgate, certain that his patient wished to be alone, soon left him; and the black figure with hands behind and head bent forward continued to pace the walk where the dark yew-trees gave him a mute companionship in melancholy, and the little shadows of bird or leaf that fleeted across the isles116 of sunlight, stole along in silence as in the presence of a sorrow. Here was a man who now for the first time found himself looking into the eyes of death-- who was passing through one of those rare moments of experience when we feel the truth of a commonplace, which is as different from what we call knowing it, as the vision of waters upon the earth is different from the delirious117 vision of the water which cannot be had to cool the burning tongue. When the commonplace "We must all die" transforms itself suddenly into the acute consciousness "I must die-- and soon," then death grapples us, and his fingers are cruel; afterwards, he may come to fold us in his arms as our mother did, and our last moment of dim earthly discerning may be like the first. To Mr. Casaubon now, it was as if he suddenly found himself on the dark river-brink and heard the plash of the oncoming oar45, not discerning the forms, but expecting the summons. In such an hour the mind does not change its lifelong bias118, but carries it onward119 in imagination to the other side of death, gazing backward-- perhaps with the divine calm of beneficence, perhaps with the petty anxieties of self-assertion. What was Mr. Casaubon's bias his acts will give us a clew to. He held himself to be, with some private scholarly reservations, a believing Christian120, as to estimates of the present and hopes of the future. But what we strive to gratify, though we may call it a distant hope, is an immediate92 desire: the future estate for which men drudge121 up city alleys122 exists already in their imagination and love. And Mr. Casaubon's immediate desire was not for divine communion and light divested123 of earthly conditions; his passionate longings124, poor man, clung low and mist-like in very shady places.
Dorothea had been aware when Lydgate had ridden away, and she had stepped into the garden, with the impulse to go at once to her husband. But she hesitated, fearing to offend him by obtruding125 herself; for her ardor, continually repulsed126, served, with her intense memory, to heighten her dread127, as thwarted128 energy subsides129 into a shudder130; and she wandered slowly round the nearer clumps131 of trees until she saw him advancing. Then she went towards him, and might have represented a heaven-sent angel coming with a promise that the short hours remaining should yet be filled with that faithful love which clings the closer to a comprehended grief. His glance in reply to hers was so chill that she felt her timidity increased; yet she turned and passed her hand through his arm.
Mr. Casaubon kept his hands behind him and allowed her pliant arm to cling with difficulty against his rigid132 arm.
There was something horrible to Dorothea in the sensation which this unresponsive hardness inflicted133 on her. That is a strong word, but not too strong: it is in these acts called trivialities that the seeds of joy are forever wasted, until men and women look round with haggard faces at the devastation134 their own waste has made, and say, the earth bears no harvest of sweetness--calling their denial knowledge. You may ask why, in the name of manliness135, Mr. Casaubon should have behaved in that way. Consider that his was a mind which shrank from pity: have you ever watched in such a mind the effect of a suspicion that what is pressing it as a grief may be really a source of contentment, either actual or future, to the being who already offends by pitying? Besides, he knew little of Dorothea's sensations, and had not reflected that on such an occasion as the present they were comparable in strength to his own sensibilities about Carp's criticisms.
Dorothea did not withdraw her arm, but she could not venture to speak. Mr. Casaubon did not say, "I wish to be alone," but he directed his steps in silence towards the house, and as they entered by the glass door on this eastern side, Dorothea withdrew her arm and lingered on the matting, that she might leave her husband quite free. He entered the library and shut himself in, alone with his sorrow.
She went up to her boudoir. The open bow-window let in the serene136 glory of the afternoon lying in the avenue, where the lime-trees cast long shadows. But Dorothea knew nothing of the scene. She threw herself on a chair, not heeding137 that she was in the dazzling sun-rays: if there were discomfort138 in that, how could she tell that it was not part of her inward misery?
She was in the reaction of a rebellious anger stronger than any she had felt since her marriage. Instead of tears there came words:--
"What have I done--what am I--that he should treat me so? He never knows what is in my mind--he never cares. What is the use of anything I do? He wishes he had never married me."
She began to hear herself, and was checked into stillness. Like one who has lost his way and is weary, she sat and saw as in one glance all the paths of her young hope which she should never find again. And just as clearly in the miserable139 light she saw her own and her husband's solitude--how they walked apart so that she was obliged to survey him. If he had drawn140 her towards him, she would never have surveyed him--never have said, "Is he worth living for?" but would have felt him simply a part of her own life. Now she said bitterly, "It is his fault, not mine." In the jar of her whole being, Pity was overthrown141. Was it her fault that she had believed in him-- had believed in his worthiness142?--And what, exactly, was he?-- She was able enough to estimate him--she who waited on his glances with trembling, and shut her best soul in prison, paying it only hidden visits, that she might be petty enough to please him. In such a crisis as this, some women begin to hate.
The sun was low when Dorothea was thinking that she would not go down again, but would send a message to her husband saying that she was not well and preferred remaining up-stairs. She had never deliberately143 allowed her resentment to govern her in this way before, but she believed now that she could not see him again without telling him the truth about her feeling, and she must wait till she could do it without interruption. He might wonder and be hurt at her message. It was good that he should wonder and be hurt. Her anger said, as anger is apt to say, that God was with her-- that all heaven, though it were crowded with spirits watching them, must be on her side. She had determined to ring her bell, when there came a rap at the door.
Mr. Casaubon had sent to say that he would have his dinner in the library. He wished to be quite alone this evening, being much occupied.
"I shall not dine, then, Tantripp."
"Oh, madam, let me bring you a little something?"
"No; I am not well. Get everything ready in my dressing144 room, but pray do not disturb me again."
Dorothea sat almost motionless in her meditative145 struggle, while the evening slowly deepened into night. But the struggle changed continually, as that of a man who begins with a movement towards striking and ends with conquering his desire to strike. The energy that would animate146 a crime is not more than is wanted to inspire a resolved submission, when the noble habit of the soul reasserts itself. That thought with which Dorothea had gone out to meet her husband--her conviction that he had been asking about the possible arrest of all his work, and that the answer must have wrung147 his heart, could not be long without rising beside the image of him, like a shadowy monitor looking at her anger with sad remonstrance148. It cost her a litany of pictured sorrows and of silent cries that she might be the mercy for those sorrows-- but the resolved submission did come; and when the house was still, and she knew that it was near the time when Mr. Casaubon habitually149 went to rest, she opened her door gently and stood outside in the darkness waiting for his coming up-stairs with a light in his hand. If he did not come soon she thought that she would go down and even risk incurring150 another pang151. She would never again expect anything else. But she did hear the library door open, and slowly the light advanced up the staircase without noise from the footsteps on the carpet. When her husband stood opposite to her, she saw that his face was more haggard. He started slightly on seeing her, and she looked up at him beseechingly152, without speaking.
"Dorothea!" he said, with a gentle surprise in his tone. "Were you waiting for me?"
"Yes, I did not like to disturb you."
"Come, my dear, come. You are young, and need not to extend your life by watching."
When the kind quiet melancholy of that speech fell on Dorothea's ears, she felt something like the thankfulness that might well up in us if we had narrowly escaped hurting a lamed153 creature. She put her hand into her husband's, and they went along the broad corridor together.
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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embittering
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的现在分词 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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exalting
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| a.令人激动的，令人喜悦的 | |
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harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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unripeness
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streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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melancholy
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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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confession
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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fervid
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irritation
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virtuous
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solicitous
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devotedness
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expiation
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luminously
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| 发光的； 明亮的； 清楚的； 辉赫 | |
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manifestations
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resentment
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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acquiesced
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tenacity
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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36
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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37
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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38
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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39
expound
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| v.详述；解释；阐述 | |
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40
explicitly
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| ad.明确地，显然地 | |
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41
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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42
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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43
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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44
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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45
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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46
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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47
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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48
allege
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| vt.宣称，申述，主张，断言 | |
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49
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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50
impulsiveness
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| n.冲动 | |
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51
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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52
pliant
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| adj.顺从的；可弯曲的 | |
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53
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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54
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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55
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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56
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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57
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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58
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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59
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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60
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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61
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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62
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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63
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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64
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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65
savors
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| v.意味，带有…的性质( savor的第三人称单数 )；给…加调味品；使有风味；品尝 | |
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66
vindictiveness
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| 恶毒；怀恨在心 | |
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67
potently
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68
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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69
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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70
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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71
adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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72
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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73
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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74
vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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76
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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77
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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78
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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79
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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80
ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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81
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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82
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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83
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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84
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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85
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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86
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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87
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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88
evergreens
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| n.常青树，常绿植物，万年青( evergreen的名词复数 ) | |
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89
dirge
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| n.哀乐，挽歌，庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
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90
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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91
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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92
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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93
collateral
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| adj.平行的；旁系的；n.担保品 | |
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94
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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95
derives
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| v.得到( derive的第三人称单数 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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96
circumscription
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| n.界限；限界 | |
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97
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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98
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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99
sublimely
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| 高尚地，卓越地 | |
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100
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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101
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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102
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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103
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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104
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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105
hindrances
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| 阻碍者( hindrance的名词复数 )； 障碍物； 受到妨碍的状态 | |
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106
clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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107
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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108
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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109
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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110
appreciably
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| adv.相当大地 | |
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111
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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112
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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115
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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116
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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117
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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118
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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119
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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120
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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121
drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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122
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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123
divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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124
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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125
obtruding
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的现在分词 ) | |
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126
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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127
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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128
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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129
subsides
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的第三人称单数 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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130
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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131
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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132
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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133
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
devastation
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| n.毁坏；荒废；极度震惊或悲伤 | |
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135
manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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136
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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137
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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138
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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139
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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140
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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141
overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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142
worthiness
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| 价值，值得 | |
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143
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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144
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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145
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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146
animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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147
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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148
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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149
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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150
incurring
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| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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151
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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152
beseechingly
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| adv. 恳求地 | |
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153
lamed
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| 希伯莱语第十二个字母 | |
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