He was going down a hill. It was a Sunday afternoon. He was striding, almost running, gaining speed down the slope. He was singing a phrase, the rhythm of which had been obsessing4 him all through his walk. He was red, disheveled: he was walking, swinging his arms, and rolling his eyes like a madman, when as he turned a bend in the road he came suddenly on a fair girl perched on a wall tugging6 with all her might at a branch of a tree from which she was greedily plucking and eating purple plums. Their astonishment7 was mutual8. She looked at him, stared, with her mouth full. Then she burst out laughing. So did he. She was good to see, with her round face framed in fair curly hair, which was like a sunlit cloud about her, her full pink cheeks, her wide blue eyes, her rather large nose, impertinently turned up, her little red mouth showing white teeth—the canine10 little, strong, and projecting—her plump chin, and her full figure, large and plump, well built, solidly put together. He called out:
"Good eating!" And was for going on his road. But she called to him:
"Sir! Sir! Will you be very nice? Help me to get down. I can't…."
He returned and asked her how she had climbed up.
"With my hands and feet…. It is easy enough to get up…."
"Yes…. But when you have eaten your courage goes. You can't find the way to get down."
"You are all right there. Stay there quietly. I'll come and see you to-morrow. Good-night!"
But he did not budge12, and stood beneath her. She pretended to be afraid, and begged him with little glances not to leave her. They stayed looking at each other and laughing. She showed him the branch to which she was clinging and asked:
"Would you like some?"
Respect for property had not developed in Christophe since the days of his expeditions with Otto: he accepted without hesitation13. She amused herself with pelting14 him with plums. When he had eaten she said:
"Now!…"
He took a wicked pleasure in keeping her waiting. She grew impatient on her wall. At last he said:
"Come, then!" and held his hand up to her.
But just as she was about to jump down she thought a moment.
"Wait! We must make provision first!"
She gathered the finest plums within reach and filled the front of her blouse with them.
"Carefully! Don't crush them!"
He felt almost inclined to do so.
She lowered herself from the wall and jumped into his arms. Although he was sturdy he bent16 under her weight and all but dragged her down. They were of the same height. Their faces came together. He kissed her lips, moist and sweet with the juice of the plums: and she returned his kiss without more ceremony.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"I don't know."
"Are you out alone?"
"No. I am with friends. But I have lost them…. Hi! Hi!" she called suddenly as loudly as she could.
No answer.
"And you … where are you going?" said she.
"I don't know, either."
"Good. We'll go together."
"You'll make yourself sick," he said.
"Not I! I've been eating them all day."
Through the gap in her blouse he saw the white of her chemise.
"They are all warm now," she said.
"Let me see!"
She held him one and laughed. He ate it. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she sucked at the fruit like a child. He did not know how the adventure would end. It is probable that she at least had some suspicion. She waited.
"Hi! Hi!" Voices in the woods.
"Hi! Hi!" she answered. "Ah! There they are!" she said to Christophe. "Not a bad thing, either!"
But on the contrary she was thinking that it was rather a pity. But speech was not given to woman for her to say what she is thinking…. Thank God! for there would be an end of morality on earth….
The voices came near. Her friends were near the road. She leaped the ditch, climbed the hedge, and hid behind the trees. He watched her in amazement21. She signed to him imperiously to come to her. He followed her. She plunged23 into the depths of the wood.
"Hi! Hi!" she called once more when they had gone some distance. "You see, they must look for me!" she explained to Christophe.
Her friends had stopped on the road and were listening for her voice to mark where it came from. They answered her and in their turn entered the woods. But she did not wait for them. She turned about on right and on left. They bawled24 loudly after her. She let them, and then went and called in the opposite direction. At last they wearied of it, and, making sure that the best way of making her come was to give up seeking her, they called:
"Good-bye!" and went off singing.
She was furious that they should not have bothered about her any more than that. She had tried to be rid of them: but she had not counted on their going off so easily. Christophe looked rather foolish: this game of hide-and-seek with a girl whom he did not know did not exactly enthrall25 him: and he had no thought of taking advantage of their solitude26. Nor did she think of it: in her annoyance27 she forgot Christophe.
"But," said Christophe, "you wanted them to."
"Not at all."
"You ran away."
"If I ran away from them that is my affair, not theirs. They ought to look for me. What if I were lost?…"
Already she was beginning to be sorry for herself because if what might have happened if … if the opposite of what actually had occurred had come about.
"Oh!" she said. "I'll shake them!" She turned back and strode off.
As she went she remembered Christophe and looked at him once more.—But it was too late. She began to laugh. The little demon29 which had been in her the moment before was gone. While she was waiting for another to come she saw Christophe with the eyes of indifference30. And then, she was hungry. Her stomach was reminding her that it was supper-time: she was in a hurry to rejoin her friends at the inn. She took Christophe's arm, leaned on it with all her weight, groaned31, and said that she was exhausted32. That did not keep her from dragging Christophe down a slope, running, and shouting, and laughing like a mad thing.
They talked. She learned who he was: she did not know his name, and seemed not to be greatly impressed by his title of musician. He learned that she was a shop-girl from a dress-maker's in the Kaiserstrasse (the most fashionable street in the town): her name was Adelheid—to friends, Ada. Her companions on the excursion were one of her friends, who worked at the same place as herself, and two nice young men, a clerk at Weiller's bank, and a clerk from a big linen33-draper's. They were turning their Sunday to account: they had decided34 to dine at the Brochet inn, from which there is a fine view over the Rhine, and then to return by boat.
The others had already established themselves at the inn when they arrived. Ada made a scene with her friends: she complained of their cowardly desertion and presented Christophe as her savior. They did not listen to her complaints: but they knew Christophe, the bank-clerk by reputation, the clerk from having heard some of his compositions—(he thought it a good idea to hum an air from one of them immediately afterwards)—and the respect which they showed him made an impression on Ada, the more so as Myrrha, the other young woman—(her real name was Hansi or Johanna)—a brunette with blinking eyes, bumpy36 forehead, hair screwed back, Chinese face, a little too animated37, but clever and not without charm, in spite of her goat-like head and her oily golden-yellow complexion38,—at once began to make advances to their Hof Musicus. They begged him to be so good as to honor their repast with his presence.
Never had he been in such high feather: for he was overwhelmed with attentions, and the two women, like good friends as they were, tried each to rob the other of him. Both courted him: Myrrha with ceremonious manners, sly looks, as she rubbed her leg against his under the table—Ada, openly making play with her fine eyes, her pretty mouth, and all the seductive resources at her command. Such coquetry in its almost coarseness incommoded and distressed40 Christophe. These two bold young women were a change from the unkindly faces he was accustomed to at home. Myrrha interested him, he guessed her to be more intelligent than Ada: but her obsequious42 manners and her ambiguous smile were curiously43 attractive and repulsive44 to him at the same time. She could do nothing against Ada's radiance of life and pleasure: and she was aware of it. When she saw that she had lost the bout9, she abandoned the effort, turned in upon herself, went on smiling, and patiently waited for her day to come. Ada, seeing herself mistress of the field, did not seek to push forward the advantage she had gained: what she had done had been mainly to despite her friend: she had succeeded, she was satisfied. But she had been caught in her own game. She felt as she looked into Christophe's eyes the passion that she had kindled45 in him: and that same passion began to awake in her. She was silent: she left her vulgar teasing: they looked at each other in silence: on their lips they had the savor46 of their kiss. From time to time by fits and starts they joined vociferously47 in the jokes of the others: then they relapsed into silence, stealing glances at each other. At last they did not even look at each other, as though they were afraid of betraying themselves. Absorbed in themselves they brooded over their desire.
When the meal was over they got ready to go. They had to go a mile and a half through the woods to reach the pier48. Ada got up first: Christophe followed her. They waited on the steps until the others were ready: without speaking, side by side, in the thick mist that was hardly at all lit up by the single lamp hanging by the inn door.—Myrrha was dawdling49 by the mirror.
Ada took Christophe's hand and led him along the house towards the garden into the darkness. Under a balcony from which hung a curtain of vines they hid. All about them was dense51 darkness. They could not even see each other. The wind stirred the tops of the pines. He felt Ada's warm fingers entwined in his and the sweet scent52 of a heliotrope53 flower that she had at her breast.
Suddenly she dragged him to her: Christophe's lips found Ada's hair, wet with the mist, and kissed her eyes, her eyebrows54, her nose, her cheeks, the corners of her mouth, seeking her lips, and finding them, staying pressed to them.
The others had gone. They called:
"Ada!…"
They did not stir, they hardly breathed, pressed close to each other, lips and bodies.
They heard Myrrha:
"They have gone on."
The footsteps of their companions died away in the night. They held each other closer, in silence, stifling55 on their lips a passionate56 murmuring.
In the distance a village clock rang out. They broke apart. They had to run to the pier. Without a word they set out, arms and hands entwined, keeping step—a little quick, firm step, like hers. The road was deserted57: no creature was abroad: they could not see ten yards ahead of them: they went, serene58 and sure, into the beloved night. They never stumbled over the pebbles59 on the road. As they were late they took a short cut. The path led for some way down through vines and then began to ascend60 and wind up the side of the hill. Through the mist they could hear the roar of the river and the heavy paddles of the steamer approaching. They left the road and ran across the fields. At last they found themselves on the bank of the Rhine but still far from the pier. Their serenity61 was not disturbed. Ada had forgotten her fatigue62 of the evening. It seemed to them that they could have walked all night like that, on the silent grass, in the hovering63 mists, that grew wetter and more dense along the river that was wrapped in a whiteness as of the moon. The steamer's siren hooted64: the invisible monster plunged heavily away and away. They said, laughing:
"We will take the next."
By the edge of the river soft lapping waves broke at their feet. At the landing stage they were told:
"The last boat has just gone."
"But," she said, "there will be another one to-morrow."
A few yards away in a halo of mist was the flickering66 light of a lamp hung on a post on a terrace by the river. A little farther on were a few lighted windows—a little inn.
They went into the tiny garden. The sand ground under their feet. They groped their way to the steps. When they entered, the lights were being put out. Ada, on Christophe's arm, asked for a room. The room to which they were led opened on to the little garden. Christophe leaned out of the window and saw the phosphorescent flow of the river, and the shade of the lamp on the glass of which were crushed mosquitoes with large wings. The door was closed. Ada was standing67 by the bed and smiling. He dared not look at her. She did not look at him: but through her lashes68 she followed Christophe's every movement. The floor creaked with every step. They could hear the least noise in the house. They sat on the bed and embraced in silence.
The flickering light of the garden is dead. All is dead…. Night…. The abyss…. Neither light nor consciousness…. Being. The obscure, devouring69 forces of Being. Joy all-powerful. Joy rending70. Joy which sucks down the human creature as the void a stone. The sprout71 of desire sucking up thought. The absurd delicious law of the blind intoxicated72 worlds which roll at night….
… A night which is many nights, hours that are centuries, records which are death…. Dreams shared, words spoken with eyes closed, tears and laughter, the happiness of loving in the voice, of sharing the nothingness of sleep, the swiftly passing images flouting74 in the brain, the hallucinations of the roaring night…. The Rhine laps in a little creek75 by the house; in the distance his waters over the dams and breakwaters make a sound as of a gentle rain falling on sand. The hull76 of the boat cracks and groans77 under the weight of water. The chain by which it is tied sags78 and grows taut79 with a rusty80 clattering81. The voice of the river rises: it fills the room. The bed is like a boat. They are swept along side by side by a giddy current—hung in mid-air like a soaring bird. The night grows ever more dark, the void more empty. Ada weeps, Christophe loses consciousness: both are swept down under the flowing waters of the night….
Night…. Death…. Why wake to life again?…
The light of the dawning day peeps through the dripping panes82. The spark of life glows once more in their languorous83 bodies. He awakes, Ada's eyes are looking at him. A whole life passes in a few moments: days of sin, greatness, and peace….
"Where am I? And am I two? Do I still exist? I am no longer conscious of being. All about me is the infinite: I have the soul of a statue, with large tranquil85 eyes, filled with Olympian peace…."
They fall back into the world of sleep. And the familiar sounds of the dawn, the distant bells, a passing boat, oars39 dripping water, footsteps on the road, all caress86 without disturbing their happy sleep, reminding them that they are alive, and making them delight in the savor of their happiness….
The puffing87 of the steamer outside the window brought Christophe from his torpor88. They had agreed to leave at seven so as to return to the town in time for their usual occupations. He whispered:
"Do you hear?"
She did not open her eyes; she smiled, she put out her lips, she tried to kiss him and then let her head fall back on his shoulder…. Through the window panes he saw the funnel89 of the steamer slip by against the sky, he saw the empty deck, and clouds of smoke. Once more he slipped into dreaminess….
An hour passed without his knowing it. He heard it strike and started in astonishment.
"Ada!…" he whispered to the girl. "Ada!" he said again. "It's eight o'clock."
"Oh! let me sleep!" she said.
She sighed wearily and turned her back on him and went to sleep once more.
He began to dream. His blood ran bravely, calmly through him. His limpid92 senses received the smallest impressions simply and freshly. He rejoiced in his strength and youth. Unwittingly he was proud of being a man. He smiled in his happiness, and felt himself alone: alone as he had always been, more lonely even but without sadness, in a divine solitude. No more fever. "No more shadows. Nature could freely cast her reflection upon his soul in its serenity. Lying on his back, facing the window, his eyes gazing deep into the dazzling air with its luminous93 mists, he smiled:
"How good it is to live!…"
To live!… A boat passed…. The thought suddenly of those who were no longer alive, of a boat gone by on which they were together: he—she…. She?… Not that one, sleeping by his side.—She, the only she, the beloved, the poor little woman who was dead.—But is it that one? How came she there? How did they come to this room? He looks at her, he does not know her: she is a stranger to him: yesterday morning she did not exist for him. What does he know of her?—He knows that she is not clever. He knows that she is not good. He knows that she is not even beautiful with her face spiritless and bloated with sleep, her low forehead, her mouth open in breathing, her swollen94 dried lips pouting95 like a fish. He knows that he does not love her. And he is filled with a bitter sorrow when he thinks that he kissed those strange lips, in the first moment with her, that he has taken this beautiful body for which he cares nothing on the first night of their meeting,—and that she whom he loved, he watched her live and die by his side and never dared touch her hair with his lips, that he will never know the perfume of her being. Nothing more. All is crumbled96 away. The earth has taken all from him. And he never defended what was his….
And while he leaned over the innocent sleeper97 and scanned her face, and looked at her with eyes of unkindness, she felt his eyes upon her. Uneasy under his scrutiny98 she made a great effort to raise her heavy lids and to smile: and she said, stammering99 a little like a waking child:
"Don't look at me. I'm ugly…."
She fell back at once, weighed down with sleep, smiled once more, murmured.
"Oh! I'm so … so sleepy!…" and went off again into her dreams.
He could not help laughing: he kissed her childish lips more tenderly. He watched the girl sleeping for a moment longer, and got up quietly. She gave a comfortable sigh when he was gone. He tried not to wake her as he dressed, though there was no danger of that: and when he had done he sat in the chair near the window and watched the steaming smoking river which looked as though it were covered with ice: and he fell into a brown study in which there hovered100 music, pastoral, melancholy101.
From time to time she half opened her eyes and looked at him vaguely102, took a second or two, smiled at him, and passed from one sleep to another. She asked him the time.
"A quarter to nine."
Half asleep she pondered:
"What! Can it be a quarter to nine?"
At half-past nine she stretched, sighed, and said that she was going to get up.
"Striking again!… The clock is fast!…" He laughed and went and sat on the bed by her side. She put her arms round his neck and told him her dreams. He did not listen very attentively104 and interrupted her with little love words. But she made him be silent and went on very seriously, as though she were telling something of the highest importance:
"She was at dinner: the Grand Duke was there: Myrrha was a Newfoundland dog…. No, a frizzy sheep who waited at table…. Ada had discovered a method of rising from the earth, of walking, dancing, and lying down in the air. You see it was quite simple: you had only to do … thus … thus … and it was done…."
Christophe laughed at her. She laughed too, though a little ruffled105 at his laughing. She shrugged106 her shoulders.
"Ah! you don't understand!…"
They breakfasted on the bed from the same cup, with the same spoon.
At last she got up: she threw off the bedclothes and slipped down from the bed. Then she sat down to recover her breath and looked at her feet. Finally she clapped her hands and told him to go out: and as he was in no hurry about it she took him by the shoulders and thrust him out of the door and then locked it.
After she had dawdled108, looked over and stretched each of her handsome limbs, she sang, as she washed, a sentimental109 Lied in fourteen couplets, threw water at Christophe's face—he was outside drumming on the window—and as they left she plucked the last rose in the garden and then they took the steamer. The mist was not yet gone: but the sun shone through it: they floated through a creamy light. Ada sat at the stern with Christophe: she was sleepy and a little sulky: she grumbled110 about the light in her eyes, and said that she would have a headache all day. And as Christophe did not take her complaints seriously enough she returned into morose111 silence. Her eyes were hardly opened and in them was the funny gravity of children who have just woke up. But at the next landing-stage an elegant lady came and sat not far from her, and she grew lively at once: she talked eagerly to Christophe about things sentimental and distinguished112. She had resumed with him the ceremonious Sie.
Christophe was thinking about what she could say to her employer by way of excuse for her lateness. She was hardly at all concerned about it.
"Bah! It's not the first time."
"The first time that … what?"
"That I have been late," she said, put out by the question.
He dared not ask her what had caused her lateness.
"What will you tell her?"
"That my mother is ill, dead … how do I know?"
He was hurt by her talking so lightly.
"I don't want you to lie."
"First of all, I never lie…. And then, I cannot very well tell her…."
He asked her half in jest, half in earnest:
"Why not?"
She laughed, shrugged, and said that he was coarse and ill-bred, and that she had already asked him not to use the Du to her.
"Haven't I the right?"
"Certainly not."
"After what has happened?"
"Nothing has happened."
She looked at him a little defiantly114 and laughed: and although she was joking, he felt most strongly that it would not have cost her much to say it seriously and almost to believe it. But some pleasant memory tickled115 her: for she burst out laughing and looked at Christophe and kissed him loudly without any concern for the people about, who did not seem to be in the least surprised by it.
Now on all his excursions he was accompanied by shop-girls and clerks: he did not like their vulgarity, and used to try to lose them: but Ada out of contrariness was no longer disposed for wandering in the woods. When it rained or for some other reason they did not leave the town he would take her to the theater, or the museum, or the Thiergarten: for she insisted on being seen with him. She even wanted him to go to church with her; but he was so absurdly sincere that he would not set foot inside a church since he had lost his belief—(on some other excuse he had resigned his position as organist)—and at the same time, unknown to himself, remained much too religious not to think Ada's proposal sacrilegious.
He used to go to her rooms in the evening. Myrrha would be there, for she lived in the same house. Myrrha was not at all resentful against him: she would hold out her soft hand, caressingly116, and talk of trivial and improper117 things and then dip away discreetly118. The two women had never seemed to be such friends as since they had had small reason for being so: they were always together. Ada had no secrets from Myrrha: she told her everything: Myrrha listened to everything: they seemed to be equally pleased with it all.
Christophe was ill at ease in the company of the two women. Their friendship, their strange conversations, their freedom of manner, the crude way in which Myrrha especially viewed and spoke73 of things—(not so much in his presence, however, as when he was not there, but Ada used to repeat her sayings to him)—their indiscreet and impertinent curiosity, which was forever turned upon subjects that were silly or basely sensual, the whole equivocal and rather animal atmosphere oppressed him terribly, though it interested him: for he knew nothing like it. He was at sea in the conversations of the two little beasts, who talked of dress, and made silly jokes, and laughed in an inept120 way with their eyes shining with delight when they were off on the track of some spicy121 story. He was more at ease when Myrrha left them. When the two women were together it was like being in a foreign country without knowing the language. It was impossible to make himself understood: they did not even listen: they poked122 fun at the foreigner.
When he was alone with Ada they went on speaking different languages: but at least they did make some attempt to understand each other. To tell the truth, the more he understood her, the less he understood her. She was the first woman he had known. For if poor Sabine was a woman he had known, he had known nothing of her: she had always remained for him a phantom123 of his heart. Ada took upon herself to make him make up for lost time. In his turn he tried to solve the riddle124 of woman; an enigma125 which perhaps is no enigma except for those who seek some meaning in it.
Ada was without intelligence: that was the least of her faults. Christophe would have commended her for it, if she had approved it herself. But although she was occupied only with stupidities, she claimed to have some knowledge of the things of the spirit: and she judged everything with complete assurance. She would talk about music, and explain to Christophe things which he knew perfectly126, and would pronounce absolute judgment127 and sentence. It was useless to try to convince her she had pretensions128 and susceptibilities in everything; she gave herself airs, she was obstinate129, vain: she would not—she could not understand anything. Why would she not accept that she could understand nothing? He loved her so much better when she was content with being just what she was, simply, with her own qualities and failings, instead of trying to impose on others and herself!
In fact, she was little concerned with thought. She was concerned with eating, drinking, singing, dancing, crying, laughing, sleeping: she wanted to be happy: and that would have been all right if she had succeeded. But although she had every gift for it: she was greedy, lazy, sensual, and frankly130 egoistic in a way that revolted and amused Christophe: although she had almost all the vices132 which make life pleasant for their fortunate possessor, if not for their friends—(and even then does not a happy face, at least if it be pretty, shed happiness on all those who come near it?)—in spite of so many reasons for being satisfied with life and herself Ada was not even clever enough for that. The pretty, robust133 girl, fresh, hearty134, healthy-looking, endowed with abundant spirits and fierce appetites, was anxious about her health. She bemoaned135 her weakness, while she ate enough for four. She was always sorry for herself: she could not drag herself along, she could not breathe, she had a headache, feet-ache, her eyes ached, her stomach ached, her soul ached. She was afraid of everything, and madly superstitious136, and saw omens137 everywhere: at meals the crossing of knives and forks, the number of the guests, the upsetting of a salt-cellar: then there must be a whole ritual to turn aside misfortune. Out walking she would count the crows, and never failed to watch which side they flew to: she would anxiously watch the road at her feet, and when a spider crossed her path in the morning she would cry out aloud: then she would wish to go home and there would be no other means of not interrupting the walk than to persuade her that it was after twelve, and so the omen15 was one of hope rather than of evil. She was afraid of her dreams: she would recount them at length to Christophe; for hours she would try to recollect139 some detail that she had forgotten; she never spared him one; absurdities140 piled one on the other, strange marriages, deaths, dressmakers' prices, burlesque141, and sometimes, obscene things. He had to listen to her and give her his advice. Often she would be for a whole day under the obsession142 of her inept fancies. She would find life ill-ordered, she would see things and people rawly and overwhelm Christophe with her jeremiads; and it seemed hardly worth while to have broken away from the gloomy middle-class people with whom he lived to find once more the eternal enemy: the "trauriger ungriechischer Hypochondrist."
But suddenly in the midst of her sulks and grumblings, she would become gay, noisy, exaggerated: there was no more dealing143 with her gaiety than with her moroseness144: she would burst out laughing for no reason and seem as though she were never going to stop: she would rush across the fields, play mad tricks and childish pranks145, take a delight in doing silly things, in mixing with the earth, and dirty things, and the beasts, and the spiders, and worms, in teasing them, and hurting them, and making them eat each other: the cats eat the birds, the fowls146 the worms, the ants the spiders, not from any wickedness, or perhaps from an altogether unconscious instinct for evil, from curiosity, or from having nothing better to do. She seemed to be driven always to say stupid things, to repeat senseless words again and again, to irritate Christophe, to exasperate147 him, set his nerves on edge, and make him almost beside himself. And her coquetry as soon as anybody—no matter who—appeared on the road!… Then she would talk excitedly, laugh noisily, make faces, draw attention to herself: she would assume an affected148 mincing149 gait. Christophe would have a horrible presentiment150 that she was going to plunge22 into serious discussion.—And, indeed, she would do so. She would become sentimental, uncontrolledly, just as she did everything: she would unbosom herself in a loud voice. Christophe would suffer and long to beat her. Least of all could he forgive her her lack of sincerity151. He did not yet know that sincerity is a gift as rare as intelligence or beauty and that it cannot justly be expected of everybody. He could not bear a lie: and Ada gave him lies in full measure. She was always lying, quite calmly, in spite of evidence to the contrary. She had that astounding152 faculty153 for forgetting what is displeasing154 to them—or even what has been pleasing to them—which those women possess who live from moment to moment.
And, in spite of everything, they loved each other with all their hearts. Ada was as sincere as Christophe in her love. Their love was none the less true for not being based on intellectual sympathy: it had nothing in common with base passion. It was the beautiful love of youth: it was sensual, but not vulgar, because it was altogether youthful: it was naïve, almost chaste155, purged156 by the ingenuous157 ardor158 of pleasure. Although Ada was not, by a long way, so ignorant as Christophe, yet she had still the divine privilege of youth of soul and body, that freshness of the senses, limpid and vivid as a running stream, which almost gives the illusion of purity and through life is never replaced. Egoistic, commonplace, insincere in her ordinary life,—love made her simple, true, almost good: she understood in love the joy that is to be found in self-forgetfulness. Christophe saw this with delight: and he would gladly have died for her. Who can tell all the absurd and touching160 illusions that a loving heart brings to its love! And the natural illusion of the lover was magnified an hundredfold in Christophe by the power of illusion which is born in the artist. Ada's smile held profound meanings for him: an affectionate word was the proof of the goodness of her heart. He loved in her all that is good and beautiful in the universe. He called her his own, his soul, his life. They wept together over their love.
Pleasure was not the only bond between them: there was an indefinable poetry of memories and dreams,—their own? or those of the men and women who had loved before them, who had been before them,—in them?… Without a word, perhaps without knowing it, they preserved the fascination161 of the first moments of their meeting in the woods, the first days, the first nights together: those hours of sleep in each other's arms, still, unthinking, sinking down into a flood of love and silent joy. Swift fancies, visions, dumb thoughts, titillating162, and making them go pale, and their hearts sink under their desire, bringing all about them a buzzing as of bees. A fine light, and tender…. Their hearts sink and beat no more, borne down in excess of sweetness. Silence, languor84, and fever, the mysterious weary smile of the earth quivering under the first sunlight of spring…. So fresh a love in two young creatures is like an April morning. Like April it must pass. Youth of the heart is like an early feast of sunshine.
Nothing could have brought Christophe closer to Ada in his love than the way in which he was judged by others.
The day after their first meeting it was known all over the town. Ada made no attempt to cover up the adventure, and rather plumed163 herself on her conquest. Christophe would have liked more discretion164: but he felt that the curiosity of the people was upon him: and as he did not wish to seem to fly from it, he threw in his lot with Ada. The little town buzzed with tattle. Christophe's colleagues in the orchestra paid him sly compliments to which he did not reply, because he would not allow any meddling165 with his affairs. The respectable people of the town judged his conduct very severely166. He lost his music lessons with certain families. With others, the mothers thought that they must now be present at the daughters' lessons, watching with suspicious eyes, as though Christophe were intending to carry off the precious darlings. The young ladies were supposed to know nothing. Naturally they knew everything: and while they were cold towards Christophe for his lack of taste, they were longing167 to have further details. It was only among the small tradespeople, and the shop people, that Christophe was popular: but not for long: he was just as annoyed by their approval as by the condemnation168 of the rest: and being unable to do anything against that condemnation, he took steps not to keep their approval: there was no difficulty about that. He was furious with the general indiscretion.
The most indignant of all with him were Justus Euler and the Vogels. They took Christophe's misconduct as a personal outrage169. They had not made any serious plans concerning him: they distrusted—especially Frau Vogel—these artistic170 temperaments171. But as they were naturally discontented and always inclined to think themselves persecuted172 by fate, they persuaded themselves that they had counted on the marriage of Christophe and Rosa; as soon as they were quite certain that such a marriage would never come to pass, they saw in it the mark of the usual ill luck. Logically, if fate were responsible for their miscalculation, Christophe could not be: but the Vogels' logic173 was that which gave them the greatest opportunity for finding reasons for being sorry for themselves. So they decided that if Christophe had misconducted himself it was not so much for his own pleasure as to give offense to them. They were scandalized. Very religious, moral, and oozing174 domestic virtue175, they were of those to whom the sins of the flesh are the most shameful176, the most serious, almost the only sins, because they are the only dreadful sins—(it is obvious that respectable people are never likely to be tempted177 to steal or murder).—And so Christophe seemed to them absolutely wicked, and they changed their demeanor178 towards him. They were icy towards him and turned away as they passed him. Christophe, who was in no particular need of their conversation, shrugged his shoulders at all the fuss. He pretended not to notice Amalia's insolence179: who, while she affected contemptuously to avoid him, did all that she could to make him fall in with her so that she might tell him all that was rankling180 in her.
Christophe was only touched by Rosa's attitude. The girl condemned181 him more harshly even than his family. Not that this new love of Christophe's seemed to her to destroy her last chances of being loved by him: she knew that she had no chance left—(although perhaps she went on hoping: she always hoped).—But she had made an idol182 of Christophe: and that idol had crumbled away. It was the worst sorrow for her … yes, a sorrow more cruel to the innocence183 and honesty of her heart, than being disdained184 and forgotten by him. Brought up puritanically186, with a narrow code of morality, in which she believed passionately187, what she had heard about Christophe had not only brought her to despair but had broken her heart. She had suffered already when he was in love with Sabine: she had begun then to lose some of her illusions about her hero. That Christophe could love so commonplace a creature seemed to her inexplicable188 and inglorious. But at least that love was pure, and Sabine was not unworthy of it. And in the end death had passed over it and sanctified it…. But that at once Christophe should love another woman,—and such a woman!—was base, and odious190! She took upon herself the defense191 of the dead woman against him. She could not forgive him for having forgotten her…. Alas192! He was thinking of her more than she: but she never thought that in a passionate heart there might be room for two sentiments at once: she thought it impossible to be faithful to the past without sacrifice of the present. Pure and cold, she had no idea of life or of Christophe: everything in her eyes was pure, narrow, submissive to duty, like herself. Modest of soul, modest of herself, she had only one source of pride: purity: she demanded it of herself and of others. She could not forgive Christophe for having so lowered himself, and she would never forgive him.
Christophe tried to talk to her, though not to explain himself—(what could he say to her? what could he say to a little puritanical185 and naïve girl?).—He would have liked to assure her that he was her friend, that he wished for her esteem193, and had still the right to it He wished to prevent her absurdly estranging194 herself from him.—But Rosa avoided him in stern silence: he felt that she despised him.
He was both sorry and angry. He felt that he did not deserve such contempt; and yet in the end he was bowled over by it: and thought himself guilty. Of all the reproaches cast against him the most bitter came from himself when he thought of Sabine. He tormented196 himself.
"Oh! God, how is it possible? What sort of creature am I?…"
But he could not resist the stream that bore him on. He thought that life is criminal: and he closed his eyes so as to live without seeing it. He had so great a need to live, and be happy, and love, and believe!… No: there was nothing despicable in his love! He knew that it was impossible to be very wise, or intelligent, or even very happy in his love for Ada: but what was there in it that could be called vile159? Suppose—(he forced the idea on himself)—that Ada were not a woman of any great moral worth, how was the love that he had for her the less pure for that? Love is in the lover, not in the beloved. Everything is worthy189 of the lover, everything is worthy of love. To the pure all is pure. All is pure in the strong and the healthy of mind. Love, which adorns197 certain birds with their loveliest colors, calls forth198 from the souls that are true all that is most noble in them. The desire to show to the beloved only what is worthy makes the lover take pleasure only in those thoughts and actions which are in harmony with the beautiful image fashioned by love. And the waters of youth in which the soul is bathed, the blessed radiance of strength and joy, are beautiful and health-giving, making the heart great.
That his friends misunderstood him filled him with bitterness. But the worst trial of all was that his mother was beginning to be unhappy about it.
The good creature was far from sharing the narrow views of the Vogels. She had seen real sorrows too near ever to try to invent others. Humble199, broken by life, having received little joy from it, and having asked even less, resigned to everything that happened, without even trying to understand it, she was careful not to judge or censure200 others: she thought she had no right. She thought herself too stupid to pretend that they were wrong when they did not think as she did: it would have seemed ridiculous to try to impose on others the inflexible201 rules of her morality and belief. Besides that, her morality and her belief were purely202 instinctive203: pious204 and pure in herself she closed her eyes to the conduct of others, with the indulgence of her class for certain faults and certain weaknesses. That had been one of the complaints that her father-in-law, Jean Michel, had lodged205 against her: she did not sufficiently206 distinguish between those who were honorable and those who were not: she was not afraid of stopping in the street or the market-place to shake hands and talk with young women, notorious in the neighborhood, whom a respectable woman ought to pretend to ignore. She left it to God to distinguish between good and evil, to punish or to forgive. From others she asked only a little of that affectionate sympathy which is so necessary to soften207 the ways of life. If people were only kind she asked no more.
But since she had lived with the Vogels a change had come about in her. The disparaging208 temper of the family had found her an easier prey209 because she was crushed and had no strength to resist. Amalia had taken her in hand: and from morning to night when they were working together alone, and Amalia did all the talking, Louisa, broken and passive, unconsciously assumed the habit of judging and criticising everything. Frau Vogel did not fail to tell her what she thought of Christophe's conduct. Louisa's calmness irritated her. She thought it indecent of Louisa to be so little concerned about what put him beyond the pale: she was not satisfied until she had upset her altogether. Christophe saw it. Louisa dared not reproach him: but every day she made little timid remarks, uneasy, insistent210: and when he lost patience and replied sharply, she said no more: but still he could see the trouble in her eyes: and when he came home sometimes he could see that she had been weeping. He knew his mother too well not to be absolutely certain that her uneasiness did not come from herself.—And he knew well whence it came.
He determined211 to make an end of it. One evening when Louisa was unable to hold back her tears and had got up from the table in the middle of supper without Christophe being able to discover what was the matter, he rushed downstairs four steps at a time and knocked at the Vogels' door. He was boiling with rage. He was not only angry about Frau Vogel's treatment of his mother: he had to avenge212 himself for her having turned Rosa against him, for her bickering213 against Sabine, for all that he had had to put up with at her hands for months. For months he had borne his pent-up feelings against her and now made haste to let them loose.
He burst in on Frau Vogel and in a voice that he tried to keep calm, though it was trembling with fury, he asked her what she had told his mother to bring her to such a state.
Amalia took it very badly: she replied that she would say what she pleased, and was responsible to no one for her actions—to him least of all. And seizing the opportunity to deliver the speech which she had prepared, she added that if Louisa was unhappy he had to go no further for the cause of it than his own conduct, which was a shame to himself and a scandal to everybody else.
Christophe was only waiting for her onslaught to strike out, He shouted angrily that his conduct was his own affair, that he did not care a rap whether it pleased Frau Vogel or not, that if she wished to complain of it she must do so to him, and that she could say to him whatever she liked: that rested with her, but he forbade her—(did she hear?)—forbade her to say anything to his mother: it was cowardly and mean so to attack a poor sick old woman.
Frau Vogel cried loudly. Never had any one dared to speak to her in such a manner. She said that she was not to be lectured fey a rapscallion,—and in her own house, too!—And she treated him with abuse.
The others came running up on the noise of the quarrel,—except Vogel, who fled from anything that might upset, his health. Old Euler was called to witness by the indignant Amalia and sternly bade Christophe in future to refrain from speaking to or visiting them. He said that they did not need him to tell them what they ought to do, that they did their duty and would always do it.
Christophe declared that he would go and would never again set foot in their house. However, he did not go until he had relieved his feelings by telling them what he had still to say about their famous Duty, which had become to him a personal enemy. He said that their Duty was the sort of thing to make him love vice131. It was people like them who discouraged good, by insisting on making it unpleasant. It was their fault that so many find delight by contrast among those who are dishonest, but amiable214 and laughter-loving. It was a profanation215 of the name of duty to apply it to everything, to the most stupid tasks, to trivial things, with a stiff and arrogant216 severity which ends by darkening and poisoning life. Duty, he said, was exceptional: it should be kept for moments of real sacrifice, and not used to lend the lover of its name to ill-humor and the desire to be disagreeable to others. There was no reason, because they were stupid enough or ungracious enough to be sad, to want everybody else to be so too and to impose on everybody their decrepit217 way of living…. The first of all virtues218 is joy. Virtue must be happy, free, and unconstrained. He who does good must give pleasure to himself. But this perpetual upstart Duty, this pedagogic tyranny, this peevishness219, this futile220 discussion, this acrid221, puerile222 quibbling, this ungraciousness, this charmless life, without politeness, without silence, this mean-spirited pessimism223, which lets slip nothing that can make existence poorer than it is, this vainglorious224 unintelligence, which finds it easier to despise others than to understand them, all this middle-class morality, without greatness, without largeness, without happiness, without beauty, all these things are odious and hurtful: they make vice appear more human than virtue.
So thought Christophe: and in his desire to hurt those who had wounded him, he did not see that he was being as unjust as those of whom he spoke.
No doubt these unfortunate people were, almost as he saw them. But it was not their fault: it was the fault of their ungracious life, which had made their faces, their doings, and their thoughts ungracious. They had suffered the deformation225 of misery226—not that great misery which swoops228 down and slays229 or forges anew—but the misery of ever recurring230 ill-fortune, that small misery which trickles231 down drop by drop from the first day to the last…. Sad, indeed! For beneath these rough exteriors232 what treasures in reserve are there, of uprightness, of kindness, of silent heroism233!… The whole strength of a people, all the sap of the future.
Christophe was not wrong in thinking duty exceptional. But love is so no less. Everything is exceptional. Everything that is of worth has no worse enemy—not the evil (the vices are of worth)—but the habitual234. The mortal enemy of the soul is the daily wear and tear.
Ada was beginning to weary of it. She was not clever enough to find new food for her love in an abundant nature like that of Christophe. Her senses and her vanity had extracted from it all the pleasure they could find in it. There was left her only the pleasure of destroying it. She had that secret instinct common to so many women, even good women, to so many men, even clever men, who are not creative either of art, or of children, or of pure action,—no matter what: of life—and yet have too much life in apathy235 and resignation to bear with their uselessness. They desire others to be as useless as themselves and do their best to make them so. Sometimes they do so in spite of themselves: and when they become aware of their criminal desire they hotly thrust it back. But often they hug it to themselves: and they set themselves according to their strength—some modestly in their own intimate circle—others largely with vast audiences—to destroy everything that has life, everything that loves life, everything that deserves life. The critic who takes upon himself to diminish the stature236 of great men and great thoughts—and the girl who amuses herself with dragging down her lovers, are both mischievous237 beasts of the same kind.—But the second is the pleasanter of the two.
Ada then would have liked to corrupt238 Christophe a little, to humiliate239 him. In truth, she was not strong enough. More intelligence was needed, even in corruption240. She felt that: and it was not the least of her rankling feelings against Christophe that her love could do him no harm. She did not admit the desire that was in her to do him harm: perhaps she would have done him none if she had been able. But it annoyed her that she could not do it. It is to fail in love for a woman not to leave her the illusion of her power for good or evil over her lover: to do that must inevitably241 be to impel242 her irresistibly243 to the test of it. Christophe paid no attention to it. When Ada asked him jokingly:
"Would you leave your music for me?"
(Although she had no wish for him to do so.)
He replied frankly:
"No, my dear: neither you nor anybody else can do anything against that. I shall always make music."
"And you say you love?" cried she, put out.
She hated his music—the more so because she did not understand it, and it was impossible for her to find a means of coming to grips with this invisible enemy and so to wound Christophe in his passion. If she tried to talk of it contemptuously, or scornfully to judge Christophe's compositions, he would shout with laughter; and in spite of her exasperation244 Ada would relapse into silence: for she saw that she was being ridiculous.
But if there was nothing to be done in that direction, she had discovered another weak spot in Christophe, one more easy of access: his moral faith. In spite of his squabble with the Vogels, and in spite of the intoxication245 of his adolescence246, Christophe had preserved an instinctive modesty247, a need of purity, of which he was entirely248 unconscious. At first it struck Ada, attracted and charmed her, then made her impatient and irritable249, and finally, being the woman she was, she detested250 it. She did not make a frontal attack. She would ask insidiously251:
"Do you love me?"
"Of course!"
"How much do you love me?"
"As much as it is possible to love."
"That is not much … after all!… What would you do for me?"
"Whatever you like."
"Would you do something dishonest."
"That would be a queer way of loving."
"That is not what I asked. Would you?"
"It is not necessary."
"But if I wished it?"
"You would be wrong."
"Perhaps…. Would you do it?"
He tried to kiss her. But she thrust him away.
"Would you do it? Yes or no?"
"No, my dear."
She turned her back on him and was furious.
"You do not love me. You do not know what love is."
"That is quite possible," he said good-humoredly. He knew that, like anybody else, he was capable in a moment of passion of committing some folly252, perhaps something dishonest, and—who knows?—even more: but he would have thought shame of himself if he had boasted of it in cold blood, and certainly it would be dangerous to confess it to Ada. Some instinct warmed him that the beloved foe253 was lying in ambush254, and taking stock of his smallest remark; he would not give her any weapon against him.
She would return to the charge again, and ask him:
"Do you love me because you love me, or because I love you?"
"Because I love you."
"Then if I did not love you, you would still love me?"
"Yes."
"And if I loved some one else you would still love me?"
"Ah! I don't know about that…. I don't think so…. In any case you would be the last person to whom I should say so."
"How would it be changed?"
"Many things would be changed. Myself, perhaps. You, certainly."
"And if I changed, what would it matter?"
"All the difference in the world. I love you as you are. If you become another creature I can't promise to love you."
"You do not love, you do not love! What is the use of all this quibbling? You love or you do not love. If you love me you ought to love me just as I am, whatever I do, always."
"That would be to love you like an animal."
"I want to be loved like that."
"Then you have made a mistake," said he jokingly. "I am not the sort of man you want. I would like to be, but I cannot. And I will not."
"You are very proud of your intelligence! You love your intelligence more than you do me."
"But I love you, you wretch255, more than you love yourself. The more beautiful and the more good you are, the more I love you."
"What would you? I love what is beautiful. Anything ugly disgusts me."
"Even in me?"
"Especially in you."
She drummed angrily with her foot.
"I will not be judged."
"Then complain of what I judge you to be, and of what I love in you," said he tenderly to appease258 her.
She let him take her in his arms, and deigned259 to smile, and let him kiss her. But in a moment when he thought she had forgotten she asked uneasily:
"What do you think ugly in me?"
He would not tell her: he replied cowardly:
"I don't think anything ugly in you."
She thought for a moment, smiled, and said:
"Just a moment, Christli: you say that you do not like lying?"
"I despise it."
"You are right," she said. "I despise it too. I am of a good conscience. I never lie."
"Then," she went on, putting her arms about his neck, "why would you be cross with me if I loved some one else and told you so?"
"Don't tease me."
"I'm not teasing: I am not saying that I do love some one else: I am saying that I do not…. But if I did love some one later on…."
"Well, don't let us think of it."
"But I want to think of it…. You would not be angry, with me? You could not be angry with me?"
"I should not be angry with you. I should leave you. That is all."
"Leave me? Why? If I still loved you …?"
"While you loved some one else?"
"Of course. It happens sometimes."
"Well, it will not happen with us."
"Why?"
"Because as soon as you love some one else, I shall love you no longer, my dear, never, never again."
"But just now you said perhaps…. Ah! you see you do not love me!"
"Well then: all the better for you."
"Because …?"
"Because if I loved you when you loved some one else it might turn out badly for you, me, and him."
"Then!… Now you are mad. Then I am condemned to stay with you all my life?"
"Be calm. You are free. You shall leave me when you like. Only it will not be au revoir: it will be good-bye."
"But if I still love you?"
"When people love, they sacrifice themselves to each other."
"Well, then … sacrifice yourself!"
He could not help laughing at her egoism: and she laughed too.
"The sacrifice of one only," he said, "means the love of one only."
"Not at all. It means the love of both. I shall not love you much longer if you do not sacrifice yourself for me. And think, Christli, how much you will love me, when you have sacrificed yourself, and how happy you will be."
They laughed and were glad to have a change from the seriousness of the disagreement.
He laughed and looked at her. At heart, as she said, she had no desire to leave Christophe at present: if he irritated her and often bored her she knew the worth of such devotion as his: and she loved no one else. She talked so for fun, partly because she knew he disliked it, partly because she took pleasure in playing with equivocal and unclean thoughts like a child which delights to mess about with dirty water. He knew this. He did not mind. But he was tired of these unwholesome discussions, of the silent struggle against this uncertain and uneasy creature whom he loved, who perhaps loved him: he was tired from the effort that he had to make to deceive himself about her, sometimes tired almost to tears. He would think: "Why, why is she like this? Why are people like this? How second-rate life is!"… At the same time he would smile as he saw her pretty face above him, her blue eyes, her flower-like complexion, her laughing, chattering261 lips, foolish a little, half open to reveal the brilliance262 of her tongue and her white teeth. Their lips would almost touch: and he would look at her as from a distance, a great distance, as from another world: he would see her going farther and farther from him, vanishing in a mist…. And then he would lose sight of her. He could hear her no more. He would fall into a sort of smiling oblivion, in which he thought of his music, his dreams, a thousand things foreign, to Ada…. Ah! beautiful music!… so sad, so mortally sad! and yet kind, loving…. Ah! how good it is!… It is that, it is that…. Nothing else is true….
She would shake his arm. A voice would cry:
"Eh, what's the matter with you? You are mad, quite mad. Why do you look at me like that? Why don't you answer?"
Once more he would see the eyes looking at him. Who was it?… Ah! yes….
He would sigh.
She would watch him. She would try to discover what he was thinking of. She did not understand: but she felt that it was useless: that she could not keep hold of him, that there was always a door by which he could escape. She would conceal263 her irritation264.
"Why are you crying?" she asked him once as he returned from one of his strange journeys into another life.
He drew his hands across his eyes. He felt that they were wet.
"I do not know," he said.
"Why don't you answer? Three times you have said the same thing."
"What do you want?" he asked gently.
She went back to her absurd discussions. He waved his hand wearily.
"Yes," she said. "I've done. Only a word more!" And off she started again.
Christophe shook himself angrily.
"Will you keep your dirtiness to yourself!"
"I was only joking."
"Find cleaner subjects, then!"
"Tell me why, then. Tell me why you don't like it."
"Why? You can't argue as to why a dump-heap smells. It does smell, and that is all! I hold my nose and go away."
He went away, furious: and he strode along taking in great breaths of the cold air.
But she would begin again, once, twice, ten times. She would bring forward every possible subject that could shock him and offend his conscience.
He thought it was only a morbid265 jest of a neurasthenic girl, amusing herself by annoying him. He would shrug107 his shoulders or pretend not to hear her: he would not take her seriously. But sometimes he would long to throw her out of the window: for neurasthenia and the neurasthenics were very little to his taste….
But ten minutes away from her were enough to make him forget everything that had annoyed him. He would return to Ada with a fresh store of hopes and new illusions. He loved her. Love is a perpetual act of faith. Whether God exist or no is a small matter: we believe, because we believe. We love because we love; there is no need of reasons!…
After Christophe's quarrel with the Vogels it became impossible for them to stay in the house, and Louisa had to seek another lodging266 for herself and her son.
One day Christophe's younger brother Ernest, of whom they had not heard for a long time, suddenly turned up. He was out of work, having been dismissed in turn from all the situations he had procured267; his purse was empty and his health ruined; and so he had thought it would be as well to re-establish himself in his mother's house.
Ernest was not on bad terms with either of his brothers: they thought very little of him and he knew it: but he did not bear any grudge268 against them, for he did not care. They had no ill-feeling against him. It was not worth the trouble. Everything they said to him slipped off his back without leaving a mark. He just smiled with his sly eyes, tried to look contrite269, thought of something else, agreed, thanked them, and in the end always managed to extort270 money from one or other of them. In spite of himself Christophe was fond of the pleasant mortal who, like himself, and more than himself, resembled their father Melchior in feature. Tall and strong like Christophe, he had regular features, a frank expression, a straight nose, a laughing mouth, fine teeth, and endearing manners. When even Christophe saw him he was disarmed and could not deliver half the reproaches that he had prepared: in his heart he had a sort of motherly indulgence for the handsome boy who was of his blood, and physically271 at all events did him credit. He did not believe him to be bad: and Ernest was not a fool. Without culture, he was not without brains: he was even not incapable272 of taking an interest in the things of the mind. He enjoyed listening to music: and without understanding his brother's compositions he would listen to them with interest. Christophe, who did not receive too much sympathy from his family, had been glad to see him at some of his concerts.
But Ernest's chief talent was the knowledge that he possessed273 of the character of his two brothers, and his skill in making use of his knowledge. It was no use Christophe knowing Ernest's egoism and indifference: it was no use his seeing that Ernest never thought of his mother or himself except when he had need of them: he was always taken in by his affectionate ways and very rarely did he refuse him anything. He much preferred him to his other brother Rodolphe, who was orderly and correct, assiduous in his business, strictly274 moral, never asked for money, and never gave any either, visited his mother regularly every Sunday, stayed an hour, and only talked about himself, boasting about himself, his firm, and everything that concerned him, never asking about the others, and taking mo interest in them, and going away when the hour was up, quite satisfied with having done his duty. Christophe could not bear him. He always arranged to be out when Rodolphe came. Rodolphe was jealous of him: he despised artists, and Christophe's success really hurt him, though he did not fail to turn his small fame to account in the commercial circles in which he moved: but he never said a word about it either to his mother or to Christophe: he pretended to ignore it. On the other hand, he never ignored the least of the unpleasant things that happened to Christophe. Christophe despised such pettiness, and pretended not to notice it: but it would really have hurt him to know, though he never thought about it, that much of the unpleasant information that Rodolphe had about him came from Ernest. The young rascal275 fed the differences between Christophe and Rodolphe: no doubt he recognized Christophe's superiority and perhaps even sympathized a little ironically with his candor277. But he took good care to turn it to account: and while he despised Rodolphe's ill-feeling he exploited it shamefully278. He flattered his vanity and jealousy279, accepted his rebukes280 deferentially281 and kept him primed with the scandalous gossip of the town, especially with everything concerning Christophe,—of which he was always marvelously informed. So he attained282 his ends, and Rodolphe, in spite of his avarice283, allowed Ernest to despoil284 him just as Christophe did.
So Ernest made use and a mock of them both, impartially285. And so both of them loved him.
In spite of his tricks Ernest was in a pitiful condition when he turned up at his mother's house. He had come from Munich, where he had found and, as usual, almost immediately lost a situation. He had had to travel the best part of the way on foot, through storms of rain, sleeping God knows where. He was covered with mud, ragged17, looking like a beggar, and coughing miserably286. Louisa was upset and Christophe ran to him in alarm when they saw him come in. Ernest, whose tears flowed easily, did not fail to make use of the effect he had produced: and there was a general reconciliation287: all three wept in each other's arms.
Christophe gave up his room: they warmed the bed, and laid the invalid288 in it, who seemed to be on the point of death. Louisa and Christophe sat by his bedside and took it in turns to watch by him. They called in a doctor, procured medicines, made a good fire in the room, and gave him special food.
Then they had to clothe him from head to foot: linen, shoes, clothes, everything new. Ernest left himself in their hands. Louisa and Christophe sweated to squeeze the money from their expenditure289. They were very straitened at the moment: the removal, the new lodgings290, which were dearer though just as uncomfortable, fewer lessons for Christophe and more expenses. They could just make both ends meet. They managed somehow. No doubt Christophe could have applied291 to Rodolphe, who was more in a position to help Ernest, but he would not: he made it a point of honor to help his brother alone. He thought himself obliged to do so as the eldest,—and because he was Christophe. Hot with shame he had to accept, to declare his willingness to accept an offer which he had indignantly rejected a fortnight before,—a proposal from an agent of an unknown wealthy amateur who wanted to buy a musical composition for publication under his own name. Louisa took work out, mending linen. They hid their sacrifice from each other: they lied about the money they brought home.
When Ernest was convalescent and sitting huddled292 up by the fire, he confessed one day between his fits of coughing that he had a few debts.—They were paid. No one reproached him. That would not have been kind to an invalid and a prodigal293 son who had repented294 and returned home. For Ernest seemed to have been changed by adversity and sickness. With tears in his eyes he spoke of his past misdeeds: and Louisa kissed him and told him to think no more of them. He was fond: he had always been able to get round his mother by his demonstrations295 of affection: Christophe had once been a little jealous of him. Now he thought it natural that the youngest and the weakest son should be the most loved. In spite of the small difference in their ages he regarded him almost as a son rather than as a brother. Ernest showed great respect for him: sometimes he would allude296 to the burdens that Christophe was taking upon himself, and to his sacrifice of money: but Christophe would not let him go on, and Ernest would content himself with showing his gratitude297 in his eyes humbly298 and affectionately. He would argue with the advice that Christophe gave him: and he would seem disposed to change his way of living and to work seriously as soon as he was well again.
He recovered: but had a long convalescence299. The doctor declared that his health, which he had abused, needed to be fostered. So he stayed on in his mother's house, sharing Christophe's bed, eating heartily300 the bread that his brother earned, and the little dainty dishes that Louisa prepared, for him. He never spoke of going. Louisa and Christophe never mentioned it either. They were too happy to have found again the son and the brother they loved.
Little by little in the long evenings that he spent with Ernest Christophe began to talk intimately to him. He needed to confide301 in somebody. Ernest was clever: he had a quick mind and understood—or seemed to understand—on a hint only. There was pleasure in talking to him. And yet Christophe dared not tell him about what lay nearest to his heart: his love. He was kept back by a sort of modesty. Ernest, who knew all about it, never let it appear that he knew.
One day when Ernest was quite well again he went in the sunny afternoon and lounged along the Rhine. As he passed a noisy inn a little way out of the town, where there were drinking and dancing on Sundays, he saw Christophe sitting with Ada and Myrrha, who were making a great noise. Christophe saw him too, and blushed. Ernest was discreet119 and passed on without acknowledging him.
Christophe was much embarrassed by the encounter: it made him more keenly conscious of the company in which he was: it hurt him that his brother should have seen him then: not only because it made him lose the right of judging Ernest's conduct, but because he had a very lofty, very naïve, and rather archaic302 notion of his duties as an elder brother which would have seemed absurd to many people: he thought that in failing in that duty, as he was doing, he was lowered in his own eyes.
In the evening when they were together in their room, he waited for Ernest to allude to what had happened. But Ernest prudently303 said nothing and waited also. Then while they were undressing Christophe decided to speak about his love. He was so ill at ease that he dared not look at Ernest: and in his shyness he assumed a gruff way of speaking. Ernest did not help him out: he was silent and did not look at him, though he watched him all the same: and he missed none of the humor of Christophe's awkwardness and clumsy words. Christophe hardly dared pronounce Ada's name: and the portrait that he drew of her would have done just as well for any woman who was loved. But he spoke of his love: little by little he was carried away by the flood of tenderness that filled his heart: he said how good it was to love, how wretched he had been before he had found that light in the darkness, and that life was nothing without a dear, deep-seated love. His brother listened gravely: he replied tactfully, and asked no questions: but a warm handshake showed that he was of Christophe's way of thinking. They exchanged ideas concerning love and life. Christophe was happy at being so well understood. They exchanged a brotherly embrace before they went to sleep.
Christophe grew accustomed to confiding304 his love to Ernest, though always shyly and reservedly. Ernest's discretion reassured305 him. He let him know his uneasiness about Ada: but he never blamed her: he blamed himself: and with tears in his eyes he would declare that he could not live if he were to lose her.
He did not forget to tell Ada about Ernest: he praised his wit and his good looks.
Ernest never approached Christophe with a request to be introduced to Ada: but he would shut himself up in his room and sadly refuse to go out, saying that he did not know anybody. Christophe would think ill of himself on Sundays for going on his excursions with Ada, while his brother stayed at home. And yet he hated not to be alone with his beloved: he accused himself of selfishness and proposed that Ernest should come with them.
The introduction took place at Ada's door, on the landing. Ernest and Ada bowed politely. Ada came out, followed by her inseparable Myrrha, who when she saw Ernest gave a little cry of surprise. Ernest smiled, went up to Myrrha, and kissed her: she seemed to take it as a matter of course.
"What! You know each other?" asked Christophe in astonishment.
"Why, yes!" said Myrrha, laughing.
"Since when?"
"Oh, a long time!"
"And you knew?" asked Christophe, turning to Ada. "Why, did you not tell me?"
"Do you think I know all Myrrha's lovers?" said Ada, shrugging her shoulders.
Myrrha took up the word and pretended in fun to be angry. Christophe could not find out any more about it. He was depressed306. It seemed to him that Ernest and Myrrha and Ada had been lacking in honesty, although indeed he could not have brought any lie up against them: but it was difficult to believe that Myrrha, who had no secrets from Ada, had made a mystery of this, and that Ernest and Ada were not already acquainted with each other. He watched them. But they only exchanged a few trivial words and Ernest only paid attention to Myrrha all the rest of the day. Ada only spoke to Christophe: and she was much more amiable to him than usual.
From that time on Ernest always joined them. Christophe could have done without him: but he dared not say so. He had no other motive307 for wanting to leave his brother out than his shame in having him for boon308 companion. He had no suspicion of him. Ernest gave him no cause for it: he seemed to be in love with Myrrha and was always reserved and polite with Ada, and even affected to avoid her in a way that was a little out of place: it was as though he wished to show his brother's mistress a little of the respect he showed to himself. Ada was not surprised by it and was none the less careful.
They went on long excursions together. The two brothers would walk on in front. Ada and Myrrha, laughing and whispering, would follow a few yards behind. They would stop in the middle of the road and talk. Christophe and Ernest would stop and wait for them. Christophe would lose patience and go on: but soon he would turn back annoyed and irritated, by hearing Ernest talking and laughing with the two young women. He would want to know what they were saying: but when they came up with him their conversation would stop.
"What are you three always plotting together?" he would ask.
They would reply with some joke. They had a secret understanding like thieves at a fair.
Christophe had a sharp quarrel with Ada. They had been cross with each other all day. Strange to say, Ada had not assumed her air of offended dignity, to which she usually resorted in such cases, so as to avenge herself, by making herself as intolerably tiresome309 as usual. Now she simply pretended to ignore Christophe's existence and she was in excellent spirits with the other two. It was as though in her heart she was not put out at all by the quarrel.
Christophe, on the other hand, longed to make peace: he was more in love than ever. His tenderness was now mingled310 with a feeling of gratitude for all the good things love had brought him, and regret for the hours he had wasted in stupid argument and angry thoughts—and the unreasoning fear, the mysterious idea that their love was nearing its end. Sadly he looked at Ada's pretty face and she pretended not to see him while she was laughing with the others: and the sight of her woke in him so many dear memories, of great love, of sincere intimacy311.—Her face had sometimes—it had now—so much goodness in it, a smile so pure, that Christophe asked himself why things were not better between them, why they spoiled their happiness with their whimsies312, why she would insist on forgetting their bright hours, and denying and combating all that was good and honest in her—what strange satisfaction she could find in spoiling, and smudging, if only in thought, the purity of their love. He was conscious of an immense need of believing in the object of his love, and he tried once more to bring back his illusions. He accused himself of injustice314: he was remorseful316 for the thoughts that he attributed to her, and of his lack of charity.
He went to, her and tried to talk to her; she answered him with a few curt50 words: she had no desire for a reconciliation with him. He insisted: he begged her to listen to him for a moment away from the others. She followed him ungraciously. When they were a few yards away so that neither Myrrha nor Ernest could see them, he took her hands and begged her pardon, and knelt at her feet in the dead leaves of the wood. He told her that he could not go on living so at loggerheads with her: that he found no pleasure in the walk, or the fine day: that he could enjoy nothing, and could not even breathe, knowing that she detested him: he needed her love. Yes: he was often unjust, violent, disagreeable: he begged her to forgive him: it was the fault of his love, he could not bear anything second-rate in her, nothing that was altogether unworthy of her and their memories of their dear past. He reminded her of it all, of their first meeting, their first days together: he said that he loved her just as much, that he would always love her, that she should not go away from him! She was everything to him….
Ada listened to him, smiling, uneasy, almost softened317. She looked at him with kind eyes, eyes that said that they loved each other, and that she was no longer angry. They kissed, and holding each other close they went into the leafless woods. She thought Christophe good and gentle, and was grateful to him for his tender words: but she did not relinquish318 the naughty whims313 that were in her mind. But she hesitated, she did not cling to them so tightly: and yet she did not abandon what she had planned to do. Why? Who can say?… Because she had vowed319 what she would do?—Who knows? Perhaps she thought it more entertaining to deceive her lover that day, to prove to him, to prove to herself her freedom. She had no thought of losing him: she did not wish for that. She thought herself more sure of him than ever.
They reached a clearing in the forest. There were two paths. Christophe took one. Ernest declared that the other led more quickly to the top of the hill whither they were going. Ada agreed with him. Christophe, who knew the way, having often been there, maintained that they were wrong. They did not yield. Then they agreed to try it: and each wagered320 that he would arrive first. Ada went with Ernest. Myrrha accompanied Christophe: she pretended that she was sure that he was right: and she added, "As usual." Christophe had taken the game seriously: and as he never liked to lose, he walked quickly, too quickly for Myrrha's liking322, for she was in much less of a hurry than he.
"Don't be in a hurry, my friend," she said, in her quiet, ironic276 voice, "we shall get there first."
He was a little sorry.
"True," he said, "I am going a little too fast: there is no need."
He slackened his pace.
"But I know them," he went on. "I am sure they will run so as to be there before us."
Myrrha burst out laughing.
"Oh! no," she said. "Oh! no: don't you worry about that."
She hung on his arm and pressed close to him. She was a little shorter than Christophe, and as they walked she raised her soft eyes to his. She was really pretty and alluring323. He hardly recognized her: the change was extraordinary. Usually her face was rather pale and puffy: but the smallest excitement, a merry thought, or the desire to please, was enough to make her worn expression vanish, and her cheeks go pink, and the little wrinkles in her eyelids324 round and below her eyes disappear, and her eyes flash, and her whole face take on a youth, a life, a spiritual quality that never was in Ada's. Christophe was surprised by this metamorphosis, and turned his eyes away from hers: he was a little uneasy at being alone with her. She embarrassed him and prevented him from dreaming as he pleased: he did not listen to what she said, he did not answer her, or if he did it was only at random: he was thinking—he wished to think only of Ada. He thought of the kindness in her eyes, her smile, her kiss: and his heart was filled with love. Myrrha wanted to make him admire the beauty of the trees with their little branches against the clear sky…. Yes: it was all beautiful: the clouds were gone, Ada had returned to him, he had succeeded in breaking the ice that lay between them: they loved once more: near or far, they were one. He sighed with relief: how light the air was! Ada had come back to him … Everything brought her to mind…. It was a little damp: would she not be cold?… The lovely trees were powdered with hoar-frost: what a pity she should not see them!… But he remembered the wager321, and hurried on: he was concerned only with not losing the way. He shouted joyfully325 as they reached the goal:
"We are first!"
He waved his hat gleefully. Myrrha watched him and smiled.
The place where they stood was a high, steep rock in the middle of the woods. From this flat summit with its fringe of nut-trees and little stunted326 oaks they could see, over the wooded slopes, the tops of the pines bathed in a purple mist, and the long ribbon of the Rhine in the blue valley. Not a bird called. Not a voice. Not a breath of air. A still, calm winter's day, its chilliness327 faintly warmed by the pale beams of a misty sun. Now and then in the distance there came the sharp whistle of a train in the valley. Christophe stood at the edge of the rock and looked down at the countryside. Myrrha watched Christophe.
"Well! The lazy things. I told them so!… Well: we must wait for them…."
He lay stretched out in the sun on the cracked earth.
"Yes. Let us wait…." said Myrrha, taking off her hat.
In her voice there was something so quizzical that he raised his head and looked at her.
"What is it?" she asked quietly.
"What did you say?"
"I said: Let us wait. It was no use making me run so fast."
"True."
They waited lying on the rough ground. Myrrha hummed a tune138. Christophe took it up for a few phrases. But he stopped every now and then to listen.
"I think I can hear them."
Myrrha went on singing.
"Do stop for a moment."
Myrrha stopped.
"No. It is nothing."
She went on with her song.
Christophe could not stay still.
"Perhaps they have lost their way."
"Lost? They could not. Ernest knows all the paths."
A fantastic idea passed through Christophe's mind.
"Perhaps they arrived first, and went away before we came!"
Myrrha was lying on her back and looking at the sun. She was seized with a wild burst of laughter in the middle of her song and all but choked. Christophe insisted. He wanted to go down to the station, saying that their friends would be there already. Myrrha at last made up her mind to move.
"You would be certain to lose them!… There was never any talk about the station. We were to meet here."
He sat down by her side. She was amused by his eagerness. He was conscious of the irony329 in her gaze as she looked at him. He began to be seriously troubled—to be anxious about them: he did not suspect them. He got up once more. He spoke of going down into the woods again and looking for them, calling to them. Myrrha gave a little chuckle330: she took from her pocket a needle, scissors, and thread: and she calmly undid331 and sewed in again the feathers in her hat: she seemed to have established herself for the day.
"No, no, silly," she said. "If they wanted to come do you think they would not come of their own accord?"
There was a catch at his heart. He turned towards her: she did not look at him: she was busy with her work. He went up to her.
"Myrrha!" he said.
"Eh?" she replied without stopping. He knelt now to look more nearly at her.
"Myrrha!" he repeated.
"Well?" she asked, raising her eyes from her work and looking at him with a smile. "What is it?"
She had a mocking expression as she saw his downcast face.
"Myrrha!" he asked, choking, "tell me what you think…."
She shrugged her shoulders, smiled, and went on working.
He caught her hands and took away the hat at which she was sewing.
"Leave off, leave off, and tell me…."
She looked squarely at him and waited. She saw that Christophe's lips were trembling.
"You think," he said in a low voice, "that Ernest and Ada …?"
She smiled.
"Oh! well!"
He started back angrily.
"No! No! It is impossible! You don't think that!… No! No!"
She put her hands on his shoulders and rocked with laughter.
"How dense you are, how dense, my dear!"
He shook her violently.
"Don't laugh! Why do you laugh? You would not laugh if it were true. You love Ernest…."
She went on laughing and drew him to her and kissed him. In spite of himself he returned her kiss. But when he felt her lips on his, her lips, still warm with his brother's kisses, he flung her away from him and held her face away from his own: he asked:
"You knew it? It was arranged between you?"
She said "Yes," and laughed.
Christophe did not cry out, he made no movement of anger. He opened his mouth as though he could not breathe: he closed his eyes and clutched at his breast with his hands: his heart was bursting. Then he lay down on the ground with his face buried in his hands and he was shaken by a crisis of disgust and despair like a child.
Myrrha, who was not very soft-hearted, was sorry for him: involuntarily she was filled with motherly compassion332, and leaned over him, and spoke affectionately to him, and tried to make him sniff333 at her smelling-bottle. But he thrust her away in horror and got up so sharply that she was afraid. He had neither strength nor desire for revenge. He looked at her with his face twisted with grief.
"You drab," he said in despair. "You do not know the harm you have done…."
She tried to hold him back. He fled through the woods, spitting out his disgust with such ignominy, with such muddy hearts, with such incestuous sharing as that to which they had tried to bring him. He wept, he trembled: he sobbed334 with disgust. He was filled with horror, of them all, of himself, of his body and soul. A storm of contempt broke loose in him: it had long been brewing335: sooner or later there had to come the reaction against the base thoughts, the degrading compromises, the stale and pestilential atmosphere in which he had been living for months: but the need of loving, of deceiving himself about the woman he loved, had postponed336 the crisis as long as possible. Suddenly it burst upon him: and it was better so. There was a great gust257 of wind of a biting purity, an icy breeze which swept away the miasma337. Disgust in one swoop227 had killed his love for Ada.
If Ada thought more firmly to establish her domination over Christophe by such an act, that proved once more her gross inappreciation of her lover. Jealousy which binds338 souls that are besmirched339 could only revolt a nature like Christophe's, young, proud, and pure. But what he could not forgive, what he never would forgive, was that the betrayal was not the outcome of passion in Ada, hardly even of one of those absurd and degrading though often irresistible341 caprices to which the reason of a woman is sometimes hard put to it not to surrender. No—he understood now,—it was in her a secret desire to degrade him, to humiliate him, to punish him for his moral resistance, for his inimical faith, to lower him to the common level, to bring him to her feet, to prove to herself her own power for evil. And he asked himself with horror: what is this impulse towards dirtiness, which is in the majority of human beings—this desire to besmirch340 the purity of themselves and others,—these swinish souls, who take a delight in rolling in filth342, and are happy when not one inch of their skins is left clean!…
Ada waited two days for Christophe to return to her. Then she began to be anxious, and sent him a tender note in which she made no allusion343 to what had happened. Christophe did not even reply. He hated Ada so profoundly that no words could express his hatred344. He had cut her out of his life. She no longer existed for him.
Christophe was free of Ada, but he was not free of himself. In vain did he try to return into illusion and to take up again the calm and chaste strength of the past. We cannot return to the past. We have to go onward345: it is useless to turn back, save only to see the places by which we have passed, the distant smoke from the roofs under which we have slept, dying away on the horizon in the mists of memory. But nothing so distances us from the soul that we had as a few months of passion. The road takes a sudden turn: the country is changed: it is as though we were saying good-bye for the last time to all that we are leaving behind.
Christophe could not yield to it. He held out his arms to the past: he strove desperately346 to bring to life again the soul that had been his, lonely and resigned. But it was gone. Passion itself is not so dangerous as the ruins that it heaps up and leaves behind. In vain did Christophe not love, in vain—for a moment—did he despise love: he bore the marks of its talons347: his whole being was steeped in it: there was in his heart a void which must be filled. With that terrible need of tenderness and pleasure which devours348 men and women when they have once tasted it, some other passion was needed, were it only the contrary passion, the passion of contempt, of proud purity, of faith in virtue.—They were not enough, they were not enough to stay his hunger: they were only the food of a moment. His life consisted of a succession of violent reactions—leaps from one extreme to the other. Sometimes he would bend his passion to rules inhumanly349 ascetic350: not eating, drinking water, wearing himself out with walking, heavy tasks, and so not sleeping, denying himself every sort of pleasure. Sometimes he would persuade himself that strength is the true morality for people like himself: and he would plunge into the quest of joy. In either case he was unhappy. He could no longer be alone. He could no longer not be alone.
The only thing that could have saved him would have been to find a true friendship,—Rosa's perhaps: he could have taken refuge in that. But the rupture351 was complete between the two families. They no longer met. Only once had Christophe seen Rosa. She was just coming out from Mass. He had hesitated to bow to her: and when she saw him she had made a movement towards him: but when he had tried to go to her through the stream of the devout352 walking down the steps, she had turned her eyes away: and when he approached her she bowed coldly and passed on. In the girl's heart he felt intense, icy contempt. And he did not feel that she still loved him and would have liked to tell him so: but she had come to think of her love as a fault and foolishness: she thought Christophe bad and corrupt, and further from her than ever. So they were lost to each other forever. And perhaps it was as well for both of them. In spite of her goodness, she was not near enough to life to be able to understand him. In spite of his need of affection and respect he would have stifled353 in a commonplace and confined existence, without joy, without sorrow, without air. They would both have suffered. The unfortunate occurrence which cut them apart was, when all was told, perhaps, fortunate as often happens—as always happens—to those who are strong and endure.
But at the moment it was a great sorrow and a great misfortune for them. Especially for Christophe. Such virtuous354 intolerance, such narrowness of soul, which sometimes seems to deprive those who have the most of them of all intelligence, and those who are most good of kindness, irritated him, hurt him, and flung him back in protest into a freer life.
During his loafing with Ada in the beer gardens of the neighborhood he had made acquaintance with several good fellows—Bohemians, whose carelessness and freedom of manners had not been altogether distasteful to him. One of them, Friedemann, a musician like himself, an organist, a man of thirty, was not without intelligence, and was good at his work, but he was incurably355 lazy and rather than make the slightest effort to be more than mediocre356, he would have died of hunger, though not, perhaps, of thirst. He comforted himself in his indolence by speaking ill of those who lived energetically, God knows why; and his sallies, rather heavy for the most part, generally made people laugh. Having more liberty than his companions, he was not afraid,—though timidly, and with winks357 and nods and suggestive remarks,—to sneer358 at those who held positions: he was even capable of not having ready-made opinions about music, and of having a sly fling at the forged reputations of the great men of the day. He had no mercy upon women either: when he was making his jokes he loved to repeat the old saying of some misogynist359 monk360 about them, and Christophe enjoyed its bitterness just then more than anybody:
"Femina mors animae."
In his state of upheaval361 Christophe found some distraction362 in talking to Friedemann. He judged him, he could not long take pleasure in this vulgar bantering363 wit: his mockery and perpetual denial became irritating before long and he felt the impotence of it all: but it did soothe364 his exasperation with the self-sufficient stupidity of the Philistines365. While he heartily despised his companion, Christophe could not do without him. They were continually seen together sitting with the unclassed and doubtful people of Friedemann's acquaintance, who were even more worthless than himself. They used to play, and harangue366, and drink the whole evening. Christophe would suddenly wake up in the midst of the dreadful smell of food and tobacco: he would look at the people about him with strange eyes: he would not recognize them: he would think in agony:
"Where am I? Who are these people? What have I to do with them?"
Their remarks and their laughter would make him sick. But he could not bring himself to leave them: he was afraid of going home and of being left alone face to face with his soul, his desires, and remorse315. He was going to the dogs: he knew it: he was doing it deliberately,—with cruel clarity he saw in Friedemann the degraded image of what he was—of what he would be one day: and he was passing through a phase of such disheartenedness and disgust that instead of being brought to himself by such a menace, it actually brought him low.
He would have gone to the dogs, if he could. Fortunately, like all creatures of his kind, he had a spring, a succor367 against destruction which others do not possess: his strength, his instinct for life, his instinct against letting himself perish, an instinct more intelligent than his intelligence, and stronger than his will. And also, unknown to himself, he had the strange curiosity of the artist, that passionate, impersonal368 quality, which is in every creature really endowed with creative power. In vain did he love, suffer, give himself utterly369 to all his passions: he saw them. They were in him but they were not himself. A myriad370 of little souls moved obscurely in him towards a fixed371 point unknown, yet certain, just like the planetary worlds which are drawn372 through space into a mysterious abyss. That perpetual state of unconscious action and reaction was shown especially in those giddy moments when sleep came over his daily life, and from the depths of sleep and the night rose the multiform face of Being with its sphinx-like gaze. For a year Christophe had been obsessed373 with dreams in which in a second of time he felt clearly with perfect illusion that he was at one and the same time several different creatures, often far removed from each other by countries, worlds, centuries. In his waking state Christophe was still under his hallucination and uneasiness, though he could not remember what had caused it. It was like the weariness left by some fixed idea that is gone, though traces of it are left and there is no understanding it. But while his soul was so troublously struggling through the network of the days, another soul, eager and serene, was watching all his desperate efforts. He did not see it: but it cast over him the reflection of its hidden light. That soul was joyously374 greedy to feel everything, to suffer everything, to observe and understand men, women, the earth, life, desires, passions, thoughts, even those that were torturing, even those that were mediocre, even those that were vile: and it was enough to lend them a little of its light, to save Christophe from destruction. It made him feel—he did not know how—that he was not altogether alone. That love of being and of knowing everything, that second soul, raised a rampart against his destroying passions.
But if it was enough to keep his head above water, it did not allow him to climb out of it unaided. He could not succeed in seeing clearly into himself, and mastering himself, and regaining375 possession of himself. Work was impossible for him. He was passing through an intellectual crisis: the most fruitful of his life: all his future life was germinating376 in it: but that inner wealth for the time being only showed itself in extravagance: and the immediate35 effect of such superabundance was not different from that of the flattest sterility377. Christophe was submerged by his life. All his powers had shot up and grown too fast, all at once, suddenly. Only his will had not grown with them: and it was dismayed by such a throng378 of monsters. His personality was cracking in every part. Of this earthquake, this inner cataclysm379, others saw nothing. Christophe himself could see only his impotence to will, to create, to be. Desires, instincts, thoughts issued one after another like clouds of sulphur from the fissures380 of a volcano: and he was forever asking himself: "And now, what will come out? What will become of me? Will it always be so? or is this the end of all? Shall I be nothing, always?"
And now there sprang up in him his hereditary381 fires, the vices of those who had gone before him.—He got drunk. He would return home smelling of wine, laughing, in a state of collapse382.
Poor Louisa would look at him, sigh, say nothing, and pray.
But one evening when he was coming out of an inn by the gates of the town he saw, a few yards in front of him on the road, the droll383 shadow of his uncle Gottfried, with his pack on his back. The little man had not been home for months, and his periods of absence were growing longer and longer. Christophe hailed him gleefully. Gottfried, bending under his load, turned round: he looked at Christophe, who was making extravagant384 gestures, and sat down on a milestone385 to wait for him. Christophe came up to him with a beaming face, skipping along, and shook his uncle's hand with great demonstrations of affection. Gottfried took a long look at him and then he said:
"Good-day, Melchior."
Christophe thought his uncle had made a mistake, and burst out laughing.
"The poor man is breaking up," he thought; "he is losing his memory."
Indeed, Gottfried did look old, shriveled, shrunken, and dried: his breathing came short and painfully. Christophe went on talking. Gottfried took his pack on his shoulders again and went on in silence. They went home together, Christophe gesticulating and talking at the top of his voice, Gottfried coughing and saying nothing. And when Christophe questioned him, Gottfried still called him Melchior. And then Christophe asked him:
"What do you mean by calling me Melchior? My name is Christophe, you know.
Have you forgotten my name?"
Gottfried did not stop. He raised his eyes toward Christophe and looked at him, shook his head, and said coldly:
"No. You are Melchior: I know you."
Christophe stopped dumfounded. Gottfried trotted386 along: Christophe followed him without a word. He was sobered. As they passed the door of a café he went up to the dark panes of glass, in which the gas-jets of the entrance and the empty streets were reflected, and he looked at himself: he recognized Melchior. He went home crushed.
He spent the night—a night of anguish—in examining himself, in soul-searching. He understood now. Yes: he recognized the instincts and vices that had come to light in him: they horrified387 him. He thought of that dark watching by the body of Melchior, of all that he had sworn to do, and, surveying his life since then, he knew that he had failed to keep his vows388. What had he done in the year? What had he done for his God, for his art, for his soul? What had he done for eternity389? There was not a day that had not been wasted, botched, besmirched. Not a single piece of work, not a thought, not an effort of enduring quality. A chaos390 of desires destructive of each other. Wind, dust, nothing…. What did his intentions avail him? He had fulfilled none of them. He had done exactly the opposite of what he had intended. He had become what he had no wish to be: that was the balance-sheet of his life.
He did not go to bed. About six in the morning it was still dark,—he heard Gottfried getting ready to depart.—For Gottfried had had no intentions of staying on. As he was passing the town he had come as usual to embrace his sister and nephew: but he had announced that he would go on next morning.
Christophe went downstairs. Gottfried saw his pale face and his eyes hollow with a night of torment195. He smiled fondly at him and asked him to go a little of the way with him. They set out together before dawn. They had no need to talk: they understood each other. As they passed the cemetery391 Gottfried said:
"Shall we go in?"
When he came to the place he never failed to pay a visit to Jean Michel and
Melchior. Christophe had not been there for a year. Gottfried knelt by
Melchior's grave and said:
"Let us pray that they may sleep well and not come to torment us."
His thought was a mixture of strange superstitions392 and sound sense: sometimes it surprised Christophe: but now it was only too dear to him. They said no more until they left the cemetery.
When they had closed the creaking gate, and were walking along the wall through the cold fields, waking from slumber393, by the little path which led them under the cypress394 trees from which the snow was dropping, Christophe began to weep.
"Oh! uncle," he said, "how wretched I am!"
He dared not speak of his experience in love, from an odd fear of embarrassing or hurting Gottfried: but he spoke of his shame, his mediocrity, his cowardice395, his broken vows.
"What am I to do, uncle? I have tried, I have struggled: and after a year I am no further on than before. Worse: I have gone back. I am good for nothing. I am good for nothing! I have ruined my life. I am perjured396!…"
"Not for the last time, my boy. We do not do what we will to do. We will and we live: two things. You must be comforted. The great thing is, you see, never to give up willing and living. The rest does not depend on us."
Christophe repeated desperately:
"I have perjured myself."
"Do you hear?" said Gottfried.
(The cocks were crowing in all the countryside.)
"They, too, are crowing for another who is perjured. They crow for every one of us, every morning."
"A day will come," said Christophe bitterly, "when, they will no longer crow for me … A day to which there is no to-morrow. And what shall I have made of my life?"
"There is always a to-morrow," said Gottfried.
"But what can one do, if willing is no use?"
"Watch and pray."
"I do not believe."
Gottfried smiled.
"You would not be alive if you did not believe. Every one believes. Pray."
"Pray to what?"
"Be reverent398 before the dawning day. Do not think of what will be in a year, or in ten years. Think of to-day. Leave your theories. All theories, you see, even those of virtue, are bad, foolish, mischievous. Do not abuse life. Live in to-day. Be reverent towards each day. Love it, respect it, do not sully it, do not hinder it from coming to flower. Love it even when it is gray and sad like to-day. Do not be anxious. See. It is winter now. Everything is asleep. The good earth will awake again. You have only to be good and patient like the earth. Be reverent. Wait. If you are good, all will go well. If you are not, if you are weak, if you do not succeed, well, you must be happy in that. No doubt it is the best you can do. So, then, why will? Why be angry because of what you cannot do? We all have to do what we can…. Als ich kann."
"It is not enough," said Christophe, making a face.
Gottfried laughed pleasantly.
"It is more than anybody does. You are a vain fellow. You want to be a hero. That is why you do such silly things…. A hero!… I don't quite know what that is: but, you see, I imagine that a hero is a man who does what he can. The others do not do it."
"Oh!" sighed Christophe. "Then what is the good of living? It is not worth while. And yet there are people who say: 'He who wills can!'"…
Gottfried laughed again softly.
They had reached the top of the hill. They embraced affectionately. The little peddler went on, treading wearily. Christophe stayed there, lost in thought, and watched him go. He repeated his uncle's saying:
"Als ich kann (The best I can)."
And he smiled, thinking:
"Yes…. All the same…. It is enough."
He returned to the town. The frozen snow crackled under his feet. The bitter winter wind made the bare branches of the stunted trees on the hill shiver. It reddened his cheeks, and made his skin tingle400, and set his blood racing401. The red roofs of the town below were smiling under the brilliant, cold sun. The air was strong and harsh. The frozen earth seemed to rejoice in bitter gladness. And Christophe's heart was like that. He thought:
"I, too, shall wake again."
There were still tears in his eyes. He dried them with the back of his hand, and laughed to see the sun dipping down behind a veil of mist. The clouds, heavy with snow, were floating over the town, lashed402 by the squall. He laughed at them. The wind blew icily….
"Blow, blow!… Do what you will with me. Bear me with you!… I know now where I am going."
点击收听单词发音
1 orchards | |
(通常指围起来的)果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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2 garb | |
n.服装,装束 | |
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3 misty | |
adj.雾蒙蒙的,有雾的 | |
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4 obsessing | |
v.时刻困扰( obsess的现在分词 );缠住;使痴迷;使迷恋 | |
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5 perch | |
n.栖木,高位,杆;v.栖息,就位,位于 | |
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6 tugging | |
n.牵引感v.用力拉,使劲拉,猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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7 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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8 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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9 bout | |
n.侵袭,发作;一次(阵,回);拳击等比赛 | |
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10 canine | |
adj.犬的,犬科的 | |
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11 tempting | |
a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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12 budge | |
v.移动一点儿;改变立场 | |
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13 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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14 pelting | |
微不足道的,无价值的,盛怒的 | |
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15 omen | |
n.征兆,预兆;vt.预示 | |
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16 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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17 ragged | |
adj.衣衫褴褛的,粗糙的,刺耳的 | |
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18 random | |
adj.随机的;任意的;n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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19 gaping | |
adj.口的;张口的;敞口的;多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 );张开,张大 | |
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20 munch | |
v.用力嚼,大声咀嚼 | |
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21 amazement | |
n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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22 plunge | |
v.跳入,(使)投入,(使)陷入;猛冲 | |
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23 plunged | |
v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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24 bawled | |
v.大叫,大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 );放声大哭;大声叫出;叫卖(货物) | |
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25 enthrall | |
vt.迷住,吸引住;使感到非常愉快 | |
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26 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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27 annoyance | |
n.恼怒,生气,烦恼 | |
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28 thumping | |
adj.重大的,巨大的;重击的;尺码大的;极好的adv.极端地;非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词);狠打;怦怦地跳;全力支持 | |
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29 demon | |
n.魔鬼,恶魔 | |
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30 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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31 groaned | |
v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 );发牢骚;抱怨;受苦 | |
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32 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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33 linen | |
n.亚麻布,亚麻线,亚麻制品;adj.亚麻布制的,亚麻的 | |
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34 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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35 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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36 bumpy | |
adj.颠簸不平的,崎岖的 | |
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37 animated | |
adj.生气勃勃的,活跃的,愉快的 | |
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38 complexion | |
n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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39 oars | |
n.桨,橹( oar的名词复数 );划手v.划(行)( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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40 distressed | |
痛苦的 | |
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41 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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42 obsequious | |
adj.谄媚的,奉承的,顺从的 | |
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43 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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44 repulsive | |
adj.排斥的,使人反感的 | |
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45 kindled | |
(使某物)燃烧,着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 ); 激起(感情等); 发亮,放光 | |
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46 savor | |
vt.品尝,欣赏;n.味道,风味;情趣,趣味 | |
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47 vociferously | |
adv.喊叫地,吵闹地 | |
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48 pier | |
n.码头;桥墩,桥柱;[建]窗间壁,支柱 | |
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49 dawdling | |
adj.闲逛的,懒散的v.混(时间)( dawdle的现在分词 ) | |
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50 curt | |
adj.简短的,草率的 | |
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51 dense | |
a.密集的,稠密的,浓密的;密度大的 | |
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52 scent | |
n.气味,香味,香水,线索,嗅觉;v.嗅,发觉 | |
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53 heliotrope | |
n.天芥菜;淡紫色 | |
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54 eyebrows | |
眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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55 stifling | |
a.令人窒息的 | |
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56 passionate | |
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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57 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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58 serene | |
adj. 安详的,宁静的,平静的 | |
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59 pebbles | |
[复数]鹅卵石; 沙砾; 卵石,小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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60 ascend | |
vi.渐渐上升,升高;vt.攀登,登上 | |
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61 serenity | |
n.宁静,沉着,晴朗 | |
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62 fatigue | |
n.疲劳,劳累 | |
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63 hovering | |
鸟( hover的现在分词 ); 靠近(某事物); (人)徘徊; 犹豫 | |
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64 hooted | |
(使)作汽笛声响,作汽车喇叭声( hoot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65 thumped | |
v.重击, (指心脏)急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66 flickering | |
adj.闪烁的,摇曳的,一闪一闪的 | |
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67 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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68 lashes | |
n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 );鞭子;突然猛烈的一击;急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 );煽动;紧系;怒斥 | |
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69 devouring | |
吞没( devour的现在分词 ); 耗尽; 津津有味地看; 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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70 rending | |
v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 );分裂;(因愤怒、痛苦等而)揪扯(衣服或头发等);(声音等)刺破 | |
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71 sprout | |
n.芽,萌芽;vt.使发芽,摘去芽;vi.长芽,抽条 | |
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72 intoxicated | |
喝醉的,极其兴奋的 | |
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73 spoke | |
n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
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74 flouting | |
v.藐视,轻视( flout的现在分词 ) | |
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75 creek | |
n.小溪,小河,小湾 | |
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76 hull | |
n.船身;(果、实等的)外壳;vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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77 groans | |
n.呻吟,叹息( groan的名词复数 );呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 );发牢骚;抱怨;受苦 | |
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78 sags | |
向下凹或中间下陷( sag的第三人称单数 ); 松弛或不整齐地悬着 | |
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79 taut | |
adj.拉紧的,绷紧的,紧张的 | |
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80 rusty | |
adj.生锈的;锈色的;荒废了的 | |
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81 clattering | |
发出咔哒声(clatter的现在分词形式) | |
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82 panes | |
窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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83 languorous | |
adj.怠惰的,没精打采的 | |
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84 languor | |
n.无精力,倦怠 | |
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85 tranquil | |
adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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86 caress | |
vt./n.爱抚,抚摸 | |
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87 puffing | |
v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 );喷着汽(或烟)移动;吹嘘;吹捧 | |
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88 torpor | |
n.迟钝;麻木;(动物的)冬眠 | |
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89 funnel | |
n.漏斗;烟囱;v.汇集 | |
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90 pouted | |
v.撅(嘴)( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91 pettishly | |
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92 limpid | |
adj.清澈的,透明的 | |
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93 luminous | |
adj.发光的,发亮的;光明的;明白易懂的;有启发的 | |
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94 swollen | |
adj.肿大的,水涨的;v.使变大,肿胀 | |
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95 pouting | |
v.撅(嘴)( pout的现在分词 ) | |
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96 crumbled | |
(把…)弄碎, (使)碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 ); 衰落; 坍塌; 损坏 | |
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97 sleeper | |
n.睡眠者,卧车,卧铺 | |
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98 scrutiny | |
n.详细检查,仔细观察 | |
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99 stammering | |
v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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100 hovered | |
鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 ); 靠近(某事物); (人)徘徊; 犹豫 | |
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101 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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102 vaguely | |
adv.含糊地,暖昧地 | |
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103 petulant | |
adj.性急的,暴躁的 | |
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104 attentively | |
adv.聚精会神地;周到地;谛;凝神 | |
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105 ruffled | |
adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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106 shrugged | |
vt.耸肩(shrug的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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107 shrug | |
v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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108 dawdled | |
v.混(时间)( dawdle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109 sentimental | |
adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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110 grumbled | |
抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 ); 发牢骚; 咕哝; 发哼声 | |
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111 morose | |
adj.脾气坏的,不高兴的 | |
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112 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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113 offense | |
n.犯规,违法行为;冒犯,得罪 | |
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114 defiantly | |
adv.挑战地,大胆对抗地 | |
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115 tickled | |
(使)发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 ); (使)愉快,逗乐 | |
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116 caressingly | |
爱抚地,亲切地 | |
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117 improper | |
adj.不适当的,不合适的,不正确的,不合礼仪的 | |
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118 discreetly | |
ad.(言行)审慎地,慎重地 | |
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119 discreet | |
adj.(言行)谨慎的;慎重的;有判断力的 | |
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120 inept | |
adj.不恰当的,荒谬的,拙劣的 | |
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121 spicy | |
adj.加香料的;辛辣的,有风味的 | |
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122 poked | |
v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 );戳出;拨弄;与(某人)性交 | |
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123 phantom | |
n.幻影,虚位,幽灵;adj.错觉的,幻影的,幽灵的 | |
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124 riddle | |
n.谜,谜语,粗筛;vt.解谜,给…出谜,筛,检查,鉴定,非难,充满于;vi.出谜 | |
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125 enigma | |
n.谜,谜一样的人或事 | |
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126 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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127 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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128 pretensions | |
自称( pretension的名词复数 ); 自命不凡; 要求; 权力 | |
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129 obstinate | |
adj.顽固的,倔强的,不易屈服的,较难治愈的 | |
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130 frankly | |
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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131 vice | |
n.坏事;恶习;[pl.]台钳,老虎钳;adj.副的 | |
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132 vices | |
缺陷( vice的名词复数 ); 恶习; 不道德行为; 台钳 | |
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133 robust | |
adj.强壮的,强健的,粗野的,需要体力的,浓的 | |
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134 hearty | |
adj.热情友好的;衷心的;尽情的,纵情的 | |
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135 bemoaned | |
v.为(某人或某事)抱怨( bemoan的过去式和过去分词 );悲悼;为…恸哭;哀叹 | |
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136 superstitious | |
adj.迷信的 | |
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137 omens | |
n.前兆,预兆( omen的名词复数 ) | |
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138 tune | |
n.调子;和谐,协调;v.调音,调节,调整 | |
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139 recollect | |
v.回忆,想起,记起,忆起,记得 | |
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140 absurdities | |
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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141 burlesque | |
v.嘲弄,戏仿;n.嘲弄,取笑,滑稽模仿 | |
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142 obsession | |
n.困扰,无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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143 dealing | |
n.经商方法,待人态度 | |
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144 moroseness | |
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145 pranks | |
n.玩笑,恶作剧( prank的名词复数 ) | |
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146 fowls | |
鸟( fowl的名词复数 ); 禽肉; 既不是这; 非驴非马 | |
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147 exasperate | |
v.激怒,使(疾病)加剧,使恶化 | |
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148 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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149 mincing | |
adj.矫饰的;v.切碎;切碎 | |
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150 presentiment | |
n.预感,预觉 | |
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151 sincerity | |
n.真诚,诚意;真实 | |
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152 astounding | |
adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊,使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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153 faculty | |
n.才能;学院,系;(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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154 displeasing | |
不愉快的,令人发火的 | |
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155 chaste | |
adj.贞洁的;有道德的;善良的;简朴的 | |
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156 purged | |
清除(政敌等)( purge的过去式和过去分词 ); 涤除(罪恶等); 净化(心灵、风气等); 消除(错事等)的不良影响 | |
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157 ingenuous | |
adj.纯朴的,单纯的;天真的;坦率的 | |
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158 ardor | |
n.热情,狂热 | |
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159 vile | |
adj.卑鄙的,可耻的,邪恶的;坏透的 | |
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160 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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161 fascination | |
n.令人着迷的事物,魅力,迷恋 | |
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162 titillating | |
adj.使人痒痒的; 使人激动的,令人兴奋的v.使觉得痒( titillate的现在分词 );逗引;激发;使高兴 | |
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163 plumed | |
饰有羽毛的 | |
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164 discretion | |
n.谨慎;随意处理 | |
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165 meddling | |
v.干涉,干预(他人事务)( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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166 severely | |
adv.严格地;严厉地;非常恶劣地 | |
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167 longing | |
n.(for)渴望 | |
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168 condemnation | |
n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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169 outrage | |
n.暴行,侮辱,愤怒;vt.凌辱,激怒 | |
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170 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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171 temperaments | |
性格( temperament的名词复数 ); (人或动物的)气质; 易冲动; (性情)暴躁 | |
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172 persecuted | |
(尤指宗教或政治信仰的)迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 ); 烦扰,困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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173 logic | |
n.逻辑(学);逻辑性 | |
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174 oozing | |
v.(浓液等)慢慢地冒出,渗出( ooze的现在分词 );使(液体)缓缓流出;(浓液)渗出,慢慢流出 | |
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175 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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176 shameful | |
adj.可耻的,不道德的 | |
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177 tempted | |
v.怂恿(某人)干不正当的事;冒…的险(tempt的过去分词) | |
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178 demeanor | |
n.行为;风度 | |
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179 insolence | |
n.傲慢;无礼;厚颜;傲慢的态度 | |
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180 rankling | |
v.(使)痛苦不已,(使)怨恨不已( rankle的现在分词 ) | |
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181 condemned | |
adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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182 idol | |
n.偶像,红人,宠儿 | |
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183 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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184 disdained | |
鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 ); 不屑于做,不愿意做 | |
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185 puritanical | |
adj.极端拘谨的;道德严格的 | |
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186 puritanically | |
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187 passionately | |
ad.热烈地,激烈地 | |
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188 inexplicable | |
adj.无法解释的,难理解的 | |
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189 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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190 odious | |
adj.可憎的,讨厌的 | |
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191 defense | |
n.防御,保卫;[pl.]防务工事;辩护,答辩 | |
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192 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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193 esteem | |
n.尊敬,尊重;vt.尊重,敬重;把…看作 | |
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194 estranging | |
v.使疏远(尤指家庭成员之间)( estrange的现在分词 ) | |
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195 torment | |
n.折磨;令人痛苦的东西(人);vt.折磨;纠缠 | |
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196 tormented | |
饱受折磨的 | |
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197 adorns | |
装饰,佩带( adorn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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198 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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199 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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200 censure | |
v./n.责备;非难;责难 | |
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201 inflexible | |
adj.不可改变的,不受影响的,不屈服的 | |
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202 purely | |
adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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203 instinctive | |
adj.(出于)本能的;直觉的;(出于)天性的 | |
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204 pious | |
adj.虔诚的;道貌岸然的 | |
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205 lodged | |
v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 );暂住;埋入;(权利、权威等)归属 | |
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206 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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207 soften | |
v.(使)变柔软;(使)变柔和 | |
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208 disparaging | |
adj.轻蔑的,毁谤的v.轻视( disparage的现在分词 );贬低;批评;非难 | |
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209 prey | |
n.被掠食者,牺牲者,掠食;v.捕食,掠夺,折磨 | |
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210 insistent | |
adj.迫切的,坚持的 | |
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211 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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212 avenge | |
v.为...复仇,为...报仇 | |
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213 bickering | |
v.争吵( bicker的现在分词 );口角;(水等)作潺潺声;闪烁 | |
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214 amiable | |
adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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215 profanation | |
n.亵渎 | |
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216 arrogant | |
adj.傲慢的,自大的 | |
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217 decrepit | |
adj.衰老的,破旧的 | |
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218 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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219 peevishness | |
脾气不好;爱发牢骚 | |
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220 futile | |
adj.无效的,无用的,无希望的 | |
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221 acrid | |
adj.辛辣的,尖刻的,刻薄的 | |
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222 puerile | |
adj.幼稚的,儿童的 | |
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223 pessimism | |
n.悲观者,悲观主义者,厌世者 | |
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224 vainglorious | |
adj.自负的;夸大的 | |
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225 deformation | |
n.形状损坏;变形;畸形 | |
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226 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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227 swoop | |
n.俯冲,攫取;v.抓取,突然袭击 | |
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228 swoops | |
猛扑,突然下降( swoop的名词复数 ) | |
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229 slays | |
杀死,宰杀,杀戮( slay的第三人称单数 ) | |
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230 recurring | |
adj.往复的,再次发生的 | |
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231 trickles | |
n.细流( trickle的名词复数 );稀稀疏疏缓慢来往的东西v.滴( trickle的第三人称单数 );淌;使)慢慢走;缓慢移动 | |
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232 exteriors | |
n.外面( exterior的名词复数 );外貌;户外景色图 | |
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233 heroism | |
n.大无畏精神,英勇 | |
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234 habitual | |
adj.习惯性的;通常的,惯常的 | |
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235 apathy | |
n.漠不关心,无动于衷;冷淡 | |
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236 stature | |
n.(高度)水平,(高度)境界,身高,身材 | |
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237 mischievous | |
adj.调皮的,恶作剧的,有害的,伤人的 | |
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238 corrupt | |
v.贿赂,收买;adj.腐败的,贪污的 | |
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239 humiliate | |
v.使羞辱,使丢脸[同]disgrace | |
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240 corruption | |
n.腐败,堕落,贪污 | |
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241 inevitably | |
adv.不可避免地;必然发生地 | |
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242 impel | |
v.推动;激励,迫使 | |
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243 irresistibly | |
adv.无法抵抗地,不能自持地;极为诱惑人地 | |
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244 exasperation | |
n.愤慨 | |
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245 intoxication | |
n.wild excitement;drunkenness;poisoning | |
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246 adolescence | |
n.青春期,青少年 | |
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247 modesty | |
n.谦逊,虚心,端庄,稳重,羞怯,朴素 | |
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248 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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249 irritable | |
adj.急躁的;过敏的;易怒的 | |
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250 detested | |
v.憎恶,嫌恶,痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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251 insidiously | |
潜在地,隐伏地,阴险地 | |
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252 folly | |
n.愚笨,愚蠢,蠢事,蠢行,傻话 | |
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253 foe | |
n.敌人,仇敌 | |
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254 ambush | |
n.埋伏(地点);伏兵;v.埋伏;伏击 | |
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255 wretch | |
n.可怜的人,不幸的人;卑鄙的人 | |
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256 asperity | |
n.粗鲁,艰苦 | |
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257 gust | |
n.阵风,突然一阵(雨、烟等),(感情的)迸发 | |
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258 appease | |
v.安抚,缓和,平息,满足 | |
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259 deigned | |
v.屈尊,俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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260 disarmed | |
v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 );使息怒 | |
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261 chattering | |
n. (机器振动发出的)咔嗒声,(鸟等)鸣,啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的,啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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262 brilliance | |
n.光辉,辉煌,壮丽,(卓越的)才华,才智 | |
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263 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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264 irritation | |
n.激怒,恼怒,生气 | |
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265 morbid | |
adj.病的;致病的;病态的;可怕的 | |
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266 lodging | |
n.寄宿,住所;(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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267 procured | |
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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268 grudge | |
n.不满,怨恨,妒嫉;vt.勉强给,不情愿做 | |
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269 contrite | |
adj.悔悟了的,后悔的,痛悔的 | |
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270 extort | |
v.勒索,敲诈,强要 | |
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271 physically | |
adj.物质上,体格上,身体上,按自然规律 | |
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272 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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273 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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274 strictly | |
adv.严厉地,严格地;严密地 | |
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275 rascal | |
n.流氓;不诚实的人 | |
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276 ironic | |
adj.讽刺的,有讽刺意味的,出乎意料的 | |
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277 candor | |
n.坦白,率真 | |
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278 shamefully | |
可耻地; 丢脸地; 不体面地; 羞耻地 | |
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279 jealousy | |
n.妒忌,嫉妒,猜忌 | |
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280 rebukes | |
责难或指责( rebuke的第三人称单数 ) | |
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281 deferentially | |
adv.表示敬意地,谦恭地 | |
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282 attained | |
(通常经过努力)实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 ); 达到; 获得; 达到(某年龄、水平、状况) | |
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283 avarice | |
n.贪婪;贪心 | |
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284 despoil | |
v.夺取,抢夺 | |
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285 impartially | |
adv.公平地,无私地 | |
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286 miserably | |
adv.痛苦地;悲惨地;糟糕地;极度地 | |
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287 reconciliation | |
n.和解,和谐,一致 | |
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288 invalid | |
n.病人,伤残人;adj.有病的,伤残的;无效的 | |
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289 expenditure | |
n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出;使用,消耗 | |
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290 lodgings | |
n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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291 applied | |
adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
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292 huddled | |
挤在一起(huddle的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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293 prodigal | |
adj.浪费的,挥霍的,放荡的 | |
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294 repented | |
对(自己的所为)感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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295 demonstrations | |
证明( demonstration的名词复数 ); 表明; 表达; 游行示威 | |
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296 allude | |
v.提及,暗指 | |
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297 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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298 humbly | |
adv. 恭顺地,谦卑地 | |
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299 convalescence | |
n.病后康复期 | |
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300 heartily | |
adv.衷心地,诚恳地,十分,很 | |
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301 confide | |
v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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302 archaic | |
adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的,已不通用的 | |
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303 prudently | |
adv. 谨慎地,慎重地 | |
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304 confiding | |
adj.相信人的,易于相信的v.吐露(秘密,心事等)( confide的现在分词 );(向某人)吐露(隐私、秘密等) | |
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305 reassured | |
adj.使消除疑虑的;使放心的v.再保证,恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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306 depressed | |
adj.沮丧的,抑郁的,不景气的,萧条的 | |
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307 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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308 boon | |
n.恩赐,恩物,恩惠 | |
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309 tiresome | |
adj.令人疲劳的,令人厌倦的 | |
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310 mingled | |
混合,混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 ); 混进,与…交往[联系] | |
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311 intimacy | |
n.熟悉,亲密,密切关系,亲昵的言行 | |
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312 whimsies | |
n.怪念头( whimsy的名词复数 );异想天开;怪脾气;与众不同的幽默感 | |
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313 WHIMS | |
虚妄,禅病 | |
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314 injustice | |
n.非正义,不公正,不公平,侵犯(别人的)权利 | |
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315 remorse | |
n.痛恨,悔恨,自责 | |
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316 remorseful | |
adj.悔恨的 | |
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317 softened | |
(使)变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 ); 缓解打击; 缓和; 安慰 | |
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318 relinquish | |
v.放弃,撤回,让与,放手 | |
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319 vowed | |
起誓,发誓(vow的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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320 wagered | |
v.在(某物)上赌钱,打赌( wager的过去式和过去分词 );保证,担保 | |
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321 wager | |
n.赌注;vt.押注,打赌 | |
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322 liking | |
n.爱好;嗜好;喜欢 | |
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323 alluring | |
adj.吸引人的,迷人的 | |
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324 eyelids | |
n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 );眼睛也不眨一下;不露声色;面不改色 | |
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325 joyfully | |
adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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326 stunted | |
adj.矮小的;发育迟缓的 | |
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327 chilliness | |
n.寒冷,寒意,严寒 | |
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328 amiably | |
adv.和蔼可亲地,亲切地 | |
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329 irony | |
n.反语,冷嘲;具有讽刺意味的事,嘲弄 | |
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330 chuckle | |
vi./n.轻声笑,咯咯笑 | |
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331 Undid | |
v. 解开, 复原 | |
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332 compassion | |
n.同情,怜悯 | |
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333 sniff | |
vi.嗅…味道;抽鼻涕;对嗤之以鼻,蔑视 | |
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334 sobbed | |
哭泣,啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 ); 哭诉,呜咽地说 | |
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335 brewing | |
n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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336 postponed | |
vt.& vi.延期,缓办,(使)延迟vt.把…放在次要地位;[语]把…放在后面(或句尾)vi.(疟疾等)延缓发作(或复发) | |
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337 miasma | |
n.毒气;不良气氛 | |
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338 binds | |
v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 );装订;捆绑;(用长布条)缠绕 | |
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339 besmirched | |
v.弄脏( besmirch的过去式和过去分词 );玷污;丑化;糟蹋(名誉等) | |
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340 besmirch | |
v.污,糟蹋 | |
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341 irresistible | |
adj.非常诱人的,无法拒绝的,无法抗拒的 | |
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342 filth | |
n.肮脏,污物,污秽;淫猥 | |
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343 allusion | |
n.暗示,间接提示 | |
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344 hatred | |
n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
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345 onward | |
adj.向前的,前进的;adv.向前,前进,在先 | |
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346 desperately | |
adv.极度渴望地,绝望地,孤注一掷地 | |
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347 talons | |
n.(尤指猛禽的)爪( talon的名词复数 );(如爪般的)手指;爪状物;锁簧尖状突出部 | |
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348 devours | |
吞没( devour的第三人称单数 ); 耗尽; 津津有味地看; 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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349 inhumanly | |
adv.无人情味地,残忍地 | |
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350 ascetic | |
adj.禁欲的;严肃的 | |
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351 rupture | |
n.破裂;(关系的)决裂;v.(使)破裂 | |
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352 devout | |
adj.虔诚的,虔敬的,衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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353 stifled | |
(使)窒息, (使)窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 ); 镇压,遏制; 堵 | |
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354 virtuous | |
adj.有品德的,善良的,贞洁的,有效力的 | |
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355 incurably | |
ad.治不好地 | |
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356 mediocre | |
adj.平常的,普通的 | |
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357 winks | |
v.使眼色( wink的第三人称单数 );递眼色(表示友好或高兴等);(指光)闪烁;闪亮 | |
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358 sneer | |
v.轻蔑;嘲笑;n.嘲笑,讥讽的言语 | |
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359 misogynist | |
n.厌恶女人的人 | |
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360 monk | |
n.和尚,僧侣,修道士 | |
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361 upheaval | |
n.胀起,(地壳)的隆起;剧变,动乱 | |
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362 distraction | |
n.精神涣散,精神不集中,消遣,娱乐 | |
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363 bantering | |
adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑,说笑,逗乐( banter的现在分词 );(善意地)取笑,逗弄 | |
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364 soothe | |
v.安慰;使平静;使减轻;缓和;奉承 | |
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365 philistines | |
n.市侩,庸人( philistine的名词复数 );庸夫俗子 | |
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366 harangue | |
n.慷慨冗长的训话,言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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367 succor | |
n.援助,帮助;v.给予帮助 | |
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368 impersonal | |
adj.无个人感情的,与个人无关的,非人称的 | |
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369 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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370 myriad | |
adj.无数的;n.无数,极大数量 | |
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371 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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372 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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373 obsessed | |
adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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374 joyously | |
ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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375 regaining | |
复得( regain的现在分词 ); 赢回; 重回; 复至某地 | |
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376 germinating | |
n.& adj.发芽(的)v.(使)发芽( germinate的现在分词 ) | |
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377 sterility | |
n.不生育,不结果,贫瘠,消毒,无菌 | |
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378 throng | |
n.人群,群众;v.拥挤,群集 | |
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379 cataclysm | |
n.洪水,剧变,大灾难 | |
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380 fissures | |
n.狭长裂缝或裂隙( fissure的名词复数 );裂伤;分歧;分裂v.裂开( fissure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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381 hereditary | |
adj.遗传的,遗传性的,可继承的,世袭的 | |
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382 collapse | |
vi.累倒;昏倒;倒塌;塌陷 | |
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383 droll | |
adj.古怪的,好笑的 | |
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384 extravagant | |
adj.奢侈的;过分的;(言行等)放肆的 | |
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385 milestone | |
n.里程碑;划时代的事件 | |
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386 trotted | |
小跑,急走( trot的过去分词 ); 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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387 horrified | |
a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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388 vows | |
誓言( vow的名词复数 ); 郑重宣布,许愿 | |
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389 eternity | |
n.不朽,来世;永恒,无穷 | |
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390 chaos | |
n.混乱,无秩序 | |
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391 cemetery | |
n.坟墓,墓地,坟场 | |
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392 superstitions | |
迷信,迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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393 slumber | |
n.睡眠,沉睡状态 | |
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394 cypress | |
n.柏树 | |
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395 cowardice | |
n.胆小,怯懦 | |
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396 perjured | |
adj.伪证的,犯伪证罪的v.发假誓,作伪证( perjure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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397 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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398 reverent | |
adj.恭敬的,虔诚的 | |
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399 liars | |
说谎者( liar的名词复数 ) | |
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400 tingle | |
vi.感到刺痛,感到激动;n.刺痛,激动 | |
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401 racing | |
n.竞赛,赛马;adj.竞赛用的,赛马用的 | |
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402 lashed | |
adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 );煽动;紧系;怒斥 | |
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