I had been familiar with Ardalion Mihalitch's wood from my childhood. I had often strolled in Tchapligino with my French tutor, Monsieur Désiré Fleury, the kindest of men (who had, however, almost ruined my constitution for life by dosing me with Leroux's mixture every evening). The whole wood consisted of some two or three hundred immense oaks and ash-trees. Their stately, powerful trunks were magnificently black against the transparent17 golden green of the nut bushes and mountain-ashes; higher up, their wide knotted branches stood out in graceful19 lines against the clear blue sky, unfolding into a tent overhead; hawks20, honey-buzzards and kestrels flew whizzing under the motionless tree-tops; variegated21 wood-peckers tapped loudly on the stout bark; the blackbird's bell-like trill was heard suddenly in the thick foliage22, following on the ever-changing note of the gold-hammer; in the bushes below was the chirp23 and twitter of hedge-warblers, siskins, and peewits; finches ran swiftly along the paths; a hare would steal along the edge of the wood, halting cautiously as he ran; a squirrel would hop4 sporting from tree to tree, then suddenly sit still, with its tail over its head. In the grass among the high ant-hills under the delicate shade of the lovely, feathery, deep-indented bracken, were violets and lilies of the valley, and funguses, russet, yellow, brown, red and crimson24; in the patches of grass among the spreading bushes red strawberries were to be found.... And oh, the shade in the wood! In the most stifling25 heat, at mid-day, it was like night in the wood: such peace, such fragrance26, such freshness.... I had spent happy times in Tchapligino, and so, I must own, it was with melancholy27 feelings I entered the wood I knew so well. The ruinous, snowless winter of 1840 had not spared my old friends, the oaks and the ashes; withered28, naked, covered here and there with sickly foliage, they struggled mournfully up above the young growth which 'took their place, but could never replace them.' [Footnote: In 1840 there were severe frosts, and no snow fell up to the very end of December; all the wintercorn was frozen, and many splendid oak-forests were destroyed by that merciless winter. It will be hard to replace them; the productive force of the land is apparently30 diminishing; in the 'interdicted31' wastelands (visited by processions with holy images, and so not to be touched), instead of the noble trees of former days, birches and aspens grow of themselves; and, indeed, they have no idea among us of planting woods at all.--Author's Note.]
Some trees, still covered with leaves below, fling their lifeless, ruined branches upwards32, as it were, in reproach and despair; in others, stout, dead, dry branches are thrust out of the midst of foliage still thick, though with none of the luxuriant abundance of old; others have fallen altogether, and lie rotting like corpses33 on the ground. And--who could have dreamed of this in former days?--there was no shade--no shade to be found anywhere in Tchapligino! 'Ah,' I thought, looking at the dying trees: 'isn't it shameful34 and bitter for you?'... Koltsov's lines recurred36 to me:
'What has become
The royal pomp?
Where now is the
Wealth of green?...
'How is it, Ardalion Mihalitch,' I began, 'that they didn't fell these trees the very next year? You see they won't give for them now a tenth of what they would have done before.'
'You should have asked my aunt that; the timber merchants came, offered money down, pressed the matter, in fact.'
'What's a bity!' observed my neighbour with a smile.
'That is; how bitiful, I meant to say.'
What particularly aroused his regrets were the oaks lying on the ground--and, indeed, many a miller41 would have given a good sum for them. But the constable Arhip preserved an unruffled composure, and did not indulge in any lamentations; on the contrary, he seemed even to jump over them and crack his whip on them with a certain satisfaction.
We were getting near the place where they were cutting down the trees, when suddenly a shout and hurried talk was heard, following on the crash of a falling tree, and a few instants after a young peasant, pale and dishevelled, dashed out of the thicket42 towards us.
'What is it? where are you running?' Ardalion Mihalitch asked him.
He stopped at once.
'Ah, Ardalion Mihalitch, sir, an accident!'
'What is it?'
'Maksim, sir, crushed by a tree.'
'How did it happen?... Maksim the foreman?'
'The foreman, sir. We'd started cutting an ash-tree, and he was standing43 looking on.... He stood there a bit, and then off he went to the well for some water--wanted a drink, seemingly--when suddenly the ash-tree began creaking and coming straight towards him. We shout to him: 'Run, run, run!'.... He should have rushed to one side, but he up and ran straight before him.... He was scared, to be sure. The ash-tree covered him with its top branches. But why it fell so soon, the Lord only knows!... Perhaps it was rotten at the core.'
'And so it crushed Maksim?'
'Yes, sir.'
'To death?'
'No, sir, he's still alive--but as good as dead; his arms and legs are crushed. I was running for Seliverstitch, for the doctor.'
Ardalion Mihalitch told the constable to gallop44 to the village for Seliverstitch, while he himself pushed on at a quick trot45 to the clearing.... I followed him.
We found poor Maksim on the ground. The peasants were standing about him. We got off our horses. He hardly moaned at all; from time to time he opened his eyes wide, looked round, as it were, in astonishment46, and bit his lips, fast turning blue.... The lower part of his face was twitching47; his hair was matted on his brow; his breast heaved irregularly: he was dying. The light shade of a young lime-tree glided48 softly over his face.
'Please sir,' he said to him, hardly articulately, 'send... for the priest... tell... the Lord... has punished me... arms, legs, all smashed... to-day's... Sunday... and I... I... see... didn't let the lads off... work.'
He ceased, out of breath.
'We've sent for the doctor, Maksim,' said my neighbour; 'perhaps you may not die yet.'
He tried to open his eyes, and with an effort raised the lids.
'No, I'm dying. Here... here it is coming... here it.... Forgive me, lads, if in any way....'
'God will forgive you, Maksim Andreitch,' said the peasants thickly with one voice, and they took off their caps; 'do you forgive us!'
He suddenly shook his head despairingly, his breast heaved with a painful effort, and he fell back again.
'We can't let him lie here and die, though,' cried Ardalion Mihalitch; 'lads, give us the mat from the cart, and carry him to the hospital.'
Two men ran to the cart.
'I bought a horse... yesterday,' faltered51 the dying man, 'off Efim... Sitchovsky... paid earnest money... so the horse is mine.... Give it... to my wife....'
They began to move him on to the mat.... He trembled all over, like a wounded bird, and stiffened52....
'He is dead,' muttered the peasants.
We mounted our horses in silence and rode away.
The death of poor Maksim set me musing53. How wonderfully indeed the Russian peasant dies! The temper in which he meets his end cannot be called indifference54 or stolidity55; he dies as though he were performing a solemn rite56, coolly and simply.
A few years ago a peasant belonging to another neighbour of mine in the country got burnt in the drying shed, where the corn is put. (He would have remained there, but a passing pedlar pulled him out half-dead; he plunged57 into a tub of water, and with a run broke down the door of the burning outhouse.) I went to his hut to see him. It was dark, smoky, stifling, in the hut. I asked, 'Where is the sick man?' 'There, sir, on the stove,' the sorrowing peasant woman answered me in a sing-song voice. I went up; the peasant was lying covered with a sheepskin, breathing heavily. 'Well, how do you feel?' The injured man stirred on the stove; all over burns, within sight of death as he was, tried to rise. 'Lie still, lie still, lie still.... Well, how are you?' 'In a bad way, surely,' said he. 'Are you in pain?' No answer. 'Is there anything you want?'--No answer. 'Shouldn't I send you some tea, or anything.' 'There's no need.' I moved away from him and sat down on the bench. I sat there a quarter of an hour; I sat there half an hour--the silence of the tomb in the hut. In the corner behind the table under the holy pictures crouched58 a little girl of twelve years old, eating a piece of bread. Her mother threatened her every now and then. In the outer room there was coming and going, noise and talk: the brother's wife was chopping cabbage. 'Hey, Aksinya,' said the injured man at last. 'What?' 'Some kvas.'Aksinya gave him some kvas. Silence again. I asked in a whisper, 'Have they given him the sacrament?' 'Yes.' So, then, everything was in order: he was waiting for death, that was all. I could not bear it, and went away....
Again, I recall how I went one day to the hospital in the village of Krasnogorye to see the surgeon Kapiton, a friend of mine, and an enthusiastic sportsman.
This hospital consisted of what had once been the lodge59 of the manor60-house; the lady of the manor had founded it herself; in other words, she ordered a blue board to be nailed up above the door with an inscription61 in white letters: 'Krasnogorye Hospital,' and had herself handed to Kapiton a red album to record the names of the patients in. On the first page of this album one of the toadying62 parasites63 of this Lady Bountiful had inscribed64 the following lines:
'Dans ces beaux lieux, où règne l'allégresse
De vos seigneurs admirez la tendresse
Bons habitants de Krasnogorié!'
while another gentleman had written below:
'Et moi aussi j'aime la nature!
JEAN KOBYLIATNIKOFF.'
The surgeon bought six beds at his own expense, and had set to work in a thankful spirit to heal God's people. Besides him, the staff consisted of two persons; an engraver65, Pavel, liable to attacks of insanity66, and a one-armed peasant woman, Melikitrisa, who performed the duties of cook. Both of them mixed the medicines and dried and infused herbs; they, too, controlled the patients when they were delirious67. The insane engraver was sullen68 in appearance and sparing of words; at night he would sing a song about 'lovely Venus,' and would besiege69 every one he met with a request for permission to marry a girl called Malanya, who had long been dead. The one-armed peasant woman used to beat him and set him to look after the turkeys. Well, one day I was at Kapiton's. We had begun talking over our last day's shooting, when suddenly a cart drove into the yard, drawn70 by an exceptionally stout horse, such as are only found belonging to millers71. In the cart sat a thick-set peasant, in a new greatcoat, with a beard streaked72 with grey. 'Hullo, Vassily Dmitritch,' Kapiton shouted from the window; 'please come in.... The miller of Liobovshin,' he whispered to me. The peasant climbed groaning out of the cart, came into the surgeon's room, and after looking for the holy pictures, crossed himself, bowing to them. 'Well, Vassily Dmitritch, any news?... But you must be ill; you don't look well.' 'Yes, Kapiton Timofeitch, there's something not right.' 'What's wrong with you?' 'Well, it was like this, Kapiton Timofeitch. Not long ago I bought some mill-stones in the town, so I took them home, and as I went to lift them out of the cart, I strained myself, or something; I'd a sort of rick in the loins, as though something had been torn away, and ever since I've been out of sorts. To-day I feel worse than ever.' 'Hm,' commented Kapiton, and he took a pinch of snuff; 'that's a rupture73, no doubt. But is it long since this happened?' 'It's ten days now.' 'Ten days?' (The surgeon drew a long inward breath and shook his head.) 'Let me examine you.' 'Well, Vassily Dmitritch,' he pronounced at last, 'I am sorry for you, heartily74 sorry, but things aren't right with you at all; you're seriously ill; stay here with me; I will do everything I can, for my part, though I can't answer for anything.' 'So bad as that?' muttered the astounded75 peasant. 'Yes, Vassily Dmitritch, it is bad; if you'd come to me a day or two sooner, it would have been nothing much; I could have cured you in a trice; but now inflammation has set in; before we know where we are, there'll be mortification76.' 'But it can't be, Kapiton Timofeitch.' 'I tell you it is so.' 'But how comes it?' (The surgeon shrugged his shoulders.) 'And I must die for a trifle like that?' 'I don't say that... only you must stop here.' The peasant pondered and pondered, his eyes fixed77 on the floor, then he glanced up at us, scratched his head, and picked up his cap. 'Where are you off to, Vassily Dmitritch?' 'Where? why, home to be sure, if it's so bad. I must put things to rights, if it's like that.' 'But you'll do yourself harm, Vassily Dmitritch; you will, really; I'm surprised how you managed to get here; you must stop.' 'No, brother, Kapiton Timofeitch, if I must die, I'll die at home; why die here? I've got a home, and the Lord knows how it will end.' 'No one can tell yet, Vassily Dmitritch, how it will end.... Of course, there is danger, considerable danger; there's no disputing that... but for that reason you ought to stay here.' (The peasant shook his head.) 'No, Kapiton Timofeitch, I won't stay... but perhaps you will prescribe me a medicine.' 'Medicine alone will be no good.' 'I won't stay, I tell you.' 'Well, as you like.... Mind you don't blame me for it afterwards.'
The surgeon tore a page out of the album, and, writing out a prescription78, gave him some advice as to what he could do besides. The peasant took the sheet of paper, gave Kapiton half-a-rouble, went out of the room, and took his seat in the cart. 'Well, good-bye, Kapiton Timofeitch, don't remember evil against me, and remember my orphans79, if anything....' 'Oh, do stay, Vassily!' The peasant simply shook his head, struck the horse with the reins, and drove out of the yard. The road was muddy and full of holes; the miller drove cautiously, without hurry, guiding his horse skilfully80, and nodding to the acquaintances he met. Three days later he was dead.
The Russians, in general, meet death in a marvellous way. Many of the dead come back now to my memory. I recall you, my old friend, who left the university with no degree, Avenir Sorokoumov, noblest, best of men! I see once again your sickly, consumptive face, your lank81 brown tresses, your gentle smile, your ecstatic glance, your long limbs; I can hear your weak, caressing82 voice. You lived at a Great Russian landowner's, called Gur Krupyanikov, taught his children, Fofa and Zyozya, Russian grammar, geography, and history, patiently bore all the ponderous83 jokes of the said Gur, the coarse familiarities of the steward84, the vulgar pranks85 of the spiteful urchins86; with a bitter smile, but without repining, you complied with the caprices of their bored and exacting87 mother; but to make up for it all, what bliss88, what peace was yours in the evening, after supper, when, free at last of all duties, you sat at the window pensively89 smoking a pipe, or greedily turned the pages of a greasy90 and mutilated number of some solid magazine, brought you from the town by the land-surveyor--just such another poor, homeless devil as yourself! How delighted you were then with any sort of poem or novel; how readily the tears started into your eyes; with what pleasure you laughed; what genuine love for others, what generous sympathy for everything good and noble, filled your pure youthful soul! One must tell the truth: you were not distinguished91 by excessive sharpness of wit; Nature had endowed you with neither memory nor industry; at the university you were regarded as one of the least promising92 students; at lectures you slumbered93, at examinations you preserved a solemn silence; but who was beaming with delight and breathless with excitement at a friend's success, a friend's triumphs?... Avenir!... Who had a blind faith in the lofty destiny of his friends? who extolled94 them with pride? who championed them with angry vehemence95? who was innocent of envy as of vanity? who was ready for the most disinterested96 self-sacrifice? who eagerly gave way to men who were not worthy97 to untie98 his latchet?... That was you, all you, our good Avenir! I remember how broken-heartedly you parted from your comrades, when you were going away to be a tutor in the country; you were haunted by presentiment99 of evil.... And, indeed, your lot was a sad one in the country; you had no one there to listen to with veneration100, no one to admire, no one to love.... The neighbours--rude sons of the steppes, and polished gentlemen alike--treated you as a tutor: some, with rudeness and neglect, others carelessly. Besides, you were not pre-possessing in person; you were shy, given to blushing, getting hot and stammering101.... Even your health was no better for the country air: you wasted like a candle, poor fellow! It is true your room looked out into the garden; wild cherries, apple-trees, and limes strewed102 their delicate blossoms on your table, your ink-stand, your books; on the wall hung a blue silk watch-pocket, a parting present from a kind-hearted, sentimental103 German governess with flaxen curls and little blue eyes; and sometimes an old friend from Moscow would come out to you and throw you into ecstasies104 with new poetry, often even with his own. But, oh, the loneliness, the insufferable slavery of a tutor's lot! the impossibility of escape, the endless autumns and winters, the ever-advancing disease!... Poor, poor Avenir!
I paid Sorokoumov a visit not long before his death. He was then hardly able to walk. The landowner, Gur Krupyanikov, had not turned him out of the house, but had given up paying him a salary, and had taken another tutor for Zyozya.... Fofa had been sent to a school of cadets. Avenir was sitting near the window in an old easy-chair. It was exquisite105 weather. The clear autumn sky was a bright blue above the dark-brown line of bare limes; here and there a few last leaves of lurid106 gold rustled107 and whispered about them. The earth had been covered with frost, now melting into dewdrops in the sun, whose ruddy rays fell aslant108 across the pale grass; there was a faint crisp resonance109 in the air; the voices of the labourers in the garden reached us clearly and distinctly. Avenir wore an old Bokhara dressing-gown; a green neckerchief threw a deathly hue110 over his terribly sunken face. He was greatly delighted to see me, held out his hand, began talking and coughing at once. I made him be quiet, and sat down by him.... On Avenir's knee lay a manuscript book of Koltsov's poems, carefully copied out; he patted it with a smile. 'That's a poet,' he stammered111, with an effort repressing his cough; and he fell to declaiming in a voice scarcely audible:
'Can the eagle's wings
Can the pathways of heaven
Be closed against him?'
I stopped him: the doctor had forbidden him to talk. I knew what would please him. Sorokoumov never, as they say, 'kept up' with the science of the day; but he was always anxious to know what results the leading intellects had reached. Sometimes he would get an old friend into a corner and begin questioning him; he would listen and wonder, take every word on trust, and even repeat it all after him. He took a special interest in German philosophy. I began discoursing113 to him about Hegel (this all happened long ago, as you may gather). Avenir nodded his head approvingly, raised his eyebrows114, smiled, and whispered: 'I see! I see! ah, that's splendid! splendid!'... The childish curiosity of this poor, dying, homeless outcast, moved me, I confess, to tears. It must be noted that Avenir, unlike the general run of consumptives, did not deceive himself in regard to his disease.... But what of that?--he did not sigh, nor grieve; he did not even once refer to his position....
Rallying his strength, he began talking of Moscow, of old friends, of Pushkin, of the drama, of Russian literature; he recalled our little suppers, the heated debates of our circle; with regret he uttered the names of two or three friends who were dead....
'Do you remember Dasha?' he went on. 'Ah, there was a heart of pure gold! What a heart! and how she loved me!... What has become of her now? Wasted and fallen away, poor dear, I daresay!'
I had not the courage to disillusion115 the sick man; and, indeed, why should he know that his Dasha was now broader than she was long, and that she was living under the protection of some merchants, the brothers Kondatchkov, that she used powder and paint, and was for ever swearing and scolding?
'But can't we,' I thought, looking at his wasted face, 'get him away from here? Perhaps there may still be a chance of curing him.' But Avenir cut short my suggestion.
'No, brother, thanks,' he said; 'it makes no difference where one dies. I shan't live till the winter, you see.... Why give trouble for nothing? I'm used to this house. It's true the people...'
'They're unkind, eh?' I put in.
'No, not unkind! but wooden-headed creatures. However, I can't complain of them. There are neighbours: there's a Mr. Kasatkin's daughter, a cultivated, kind, charming girl... not proud...'
Sorokoumov began coughing again.
'I shouldn't mind anything,' he went on, after taking breath, 'if they'd only let me smoke my pipe.... But I'll have my pipe, if I die for it!' he added, with a sly wink116. 'Thank God, I have had life enough! I have known so many fine people.
'But you should, at least, write to your relations,' I interrupted.
'Why write to them? They can't be any help; when I die they'll hear of it. But, why talk about it... I'd rather you'd tell me what you saw abroad.'
I began to tell him my experiences. He seemed positively117 to gloat over my story. Towards evening I left, and ten days later I received the following letter from Mr. Krupyanikov:
'I have the honour to inform you, my dear sir, that your friend, the student, living in my house, Mr. Avenir Sorokoumov, died at two o'clock in the afternoon, three days ago, and was buried to-day, at my expense, in the parish church. He asked me to forward you the books and manuscripts enclosed herewith. He was found to have twenty-two roubles and a half, which, with the rest of his belongings118, pass into the possession of his relatives. Your friend died fully29 conscious, and, I may say, with so little sensibility that he showed no signs of regret even when the whole family of us took a last farewell of him. My wife, Kleopatra Aleksandrovna, sends you her regards. The death of your friend has, of course, affected119 her nerves; as regards myself, I am, thank God, in good health, and have the honour to remain, your humble120 servant,'
'G. KRUPYANIKOV.'
I was present at an old lady's death-bed; the priest had begun reading the prayers for the dying over her, but, suddenly noticing that the patient seemed to be actually dying, he made haste to give her the cross to kiss. The lady turned away with an air of displeasure. 'You're in too great a hurry, father,' she said, in a voice almost inarticulate; 'in too great a hurry.'... She kissed the cross, put her hand under the pillow and expired. Under the pillow was a silver rouble; she had meant to pay the priest for the service at her own death....
Yes, the Russians die in a wonderful way.
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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constable
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squat
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jaws
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antediluvian
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groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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noted
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mare
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tug
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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torpid
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nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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transparent
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par
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graceful
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hawks
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| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
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variegated
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foliage
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chirp
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crimson
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stifling
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fragrance
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melancholy
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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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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apparently
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interdicted
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upwards
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corpses
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shameful
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recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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36
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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38
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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39
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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40
vat
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| n.(=value added tax)增值税，大桶 | |
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41
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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42
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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43
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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44
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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45
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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46
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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47
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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48
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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49
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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50
deducting
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| v.扣除，减去( deduct的现在分词 ) | |
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51
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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52
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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53
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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54
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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stolidity
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| n.迟钝，感觉麻木 | |
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56
rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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58
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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61
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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toadying
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| v.拍马，谄媚( toady的现在分词 ) | |
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63
parasites
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| 寄生物( parasite的名词复数 )； 靠他人为生的人； 诸虫 | |
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64
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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engraver
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| n.雕刻师，雕工 | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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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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besiege
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| vt.包围，围攻，拥在...周围 | |
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70
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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millers
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| n.（尤指面粉厂的）厂主( miller的名词复数 )；磨房主；碾磨工；铣工 | |
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72
streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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73
rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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79
orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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81
lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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82
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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83
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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84
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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85
pranks
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| n.玩笑，恶作剧( prank的名词复数 ) | |
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86
urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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87
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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88
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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89
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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90
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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91
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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92
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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93
slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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extolled
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| v.赞颂，赞扬，赞美( extol的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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96
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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97
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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98
untie
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| vt.解开，松开；解放 | |
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99
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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100
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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101
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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102
strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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103
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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104
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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105
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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106
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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107
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
aslant
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| adv.倾斜地；adj.斜的 | |
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109
resonance
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| n.洪亮；共鸣；共振 | |
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110
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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111
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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112
fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
discoursing
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| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
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114
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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115
disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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116
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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117
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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118
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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119
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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120
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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