The darkness fell, but rose again, and as each day spread widelyover the earth and parted them from the strange day in the forestwhen they had been forced to tell each other what they wanted,this wish of theirs was revealed to other people, and in the processbecame slightly strange to themselves. Apparently2 it was not anythingunusual that had happened; it was that they had become engagedto marry each other. The world, which consisted for the most partof the hotel and the villa3, expressed itself glad on the wholethat two people should marry, and allowed them to see that they werenot expected to take part in the work which has to be done in orderthat the world shall go on, but might absent themselves for a time.
They were accordingly left alone until they felt the silence as if,playing in a vast church, the door had been shut on them.
They were driven to walk alone, and sit alone, to visit secret placeswhere the flowers had never been picked and the trees were solitary4.
In solitude5 they could express those beautiful but too vast desireswhich were so oddly uncomfortable to the ears of other men and women--desires for a world, such as their own world which contained twopeople seemed to them to be, where people knew each other intimatelyand thus judged each other by what was good, and never quarrelled,because that was waste of time.
They would talk of such questions among books, or out in the sun,or sitting in the shade of a tree undisturbed. They were nolonger embarrassed, or half-choked with meaning which could notexpress itself; they were not afraid of each other, or, like travellersdown a twisting river, dazzled with sudden beauties when the corneris turned; the unexpected happened, but even the ordinary was lovable,and in many ways preferable to the ecstatic and mysterious,for it was refreshingly6 solid, and called out effort, and effortunder such circumstances was not effort but delight.
While Rachel played the piano, Terence sat near her, engaged,as far as the occasional writing of a word in pencil testified,in shaping the world as it appeared to him now that he and Rachelwere going to be married. It was different certainly. The bookcalled _Silence_ would not now be the same book that it wouldhave been. He would then put down his pencil and stare in frontof him, and wonder in what respects the world was different--it had, perhaps, more solidity, more coherence7, more importance,greater depth. Why, even the earth sometimes seemed to him very deep;not carved into hills and cities and fields, but heaped in great masses.
He would look out of the window for ten minutes at a time; but no, he didnot care for the earth swept of human beings. He liked human beings--he liked them, he suspected, better than Rachel did. There she was,swaying enthusiastically over her music, quite forgetful of him,--but he liked that quality in her. He liked the impersonalitywhich it produced in her. At last, having written down a seriesof little sentences, with notes of interrogation attached to them,he observed aloud, "'Women--'under the heading Women I've written:
"'Not really vainer than men. Lack of self-confidence at the baseof most serious faults. Dislike of own sex traditional, or foundedon fact? Every woman not so much a rake at heart, as an optimist,because they don't think.' What do you say, Rachel?" He pausedwith his pencil in his hand and a sheet of paper on his knee.
Rachel said nothing. Up and up the steep spiral of a very late Beethovensonata she climbed, like a person ascending8 a ruined staircase,energetically at first, then more laboriously9 advancing her feetwith effort until she could go no higher and returned with a runto begin at the very bottom again.
"'Again, it's the fashion now to say that women are more practicaland less idealistic than men, also that they have considerableorganising ability but no sense of honour'--query, what is meantby masculine term, honour?--what corresponds to it in your sex? Eh?"Attacking her staircase once more, Rachel again neglectedthis opportunity of revealing the secrets of her sex.
She had, indeed, advanced so far in the pursuit of wisdomthat she allowed these secrets to rest undisturbed; it seemedto be reserved for a later generation to discuss them philosophically10.
Crashing down a final chord with her left hand, she exclaimed at last,swinging round upon him:
"No, Terence, it's no good; here am I, the best musician inSouth America, not to speak of Europe and Asia, and I can't playa note because of you in the room interrupting me every other second.""You don't seem to realise that that's what I've been aimingat for the last half-hour," he remarked. "I've no objectionto nice simple tunes--indeed, I find them very helpfulto my literary composition, but that kind of thing is merelylike an unfortunate old dog going round on its hind11 legs in the rain."He began turning over the little sheets of note-paper which werescattered on the table, conveying the congratulations of their friends.
"'--all possible wishes for all possible happiness,'" he read;"correct, but not very vivid, are they?""They're sheer nonsense!" Rachel exclaimed. "Think of wordscompared with sounds!" she continued. "Think of novels and playsand histories--" Perched on the edge of the table, she stirredthe red and yellow volumes contemptuously. She seemed to herselfto be in a position where she could despise all human learning.
Terence looked at them too.
"God, Rachel, you do read trash!" he exclaimed. "And you'rebehind the times too, my dear. No one dreams of reading this kindof thing now--antiquated problem plays, harrowing descriptionsof life in the east end--oh, no, we've exploded all that.
Read poetry, Rachel, poetry, poetry, poetry!"Picking up one of the books, he began to read aloud, his intentionbeing to satirise the short sharp bark of the writer's English;but she paid no attention, and after an interval12 of meditation13 exclaimed:
"Does it ever seem to you, Terence, that the world is composedentirely of vast blocks of matter, and that we're nothing butpatches of light--" she looked at the soft spots of sun waveringover the carpet and up the wall--"like that?""No," said Terence, "I feel solid; immensely solid; the legs of mychair might be rooted in the bowels15 of the earth. But at Cambridge,I can remember, there were times when one fell into ridiculous statesof semi-coma about five o'clock in the morning. Hirst does now,I expect--oh, no, Hirst wouldn't."Rachel continued, "The day your note came, asking us to go onthe picnic, I was sitting where you're sitting now, thinking that;I wonder if I could think that again? I wonder if the world's changed?
and if so, when it'll stop changing, and which is the real world?""When I first saw you," he began, "I thought you were like acreature who'd lived all its life among pearls and old bones.
Your hands were wet, d'you remember, and you never said a word untilI gave you a bit of bread, and then you said, 'Human Beings!'""And I thought you--a prig," she recollected16. "No; that's not quite it.
There were the ants who stole the tongue, and I thought you andSt. John were like those ants--very big, very ugly, very energetic,with all your virtues17 on your backs. However, when I talked to youI liked you--""You fell in love with me," he corrected her. "You were in lovewith me all the time, only you didn't know it.""No, I never fell in love with you," she asserted.
"Rachel--what a lie--didn't you sit here looking at my window--didn't you wander about the hotel like an owl18 in the sun--?""No," she repeated, "I never fell in love, if falling in loveis what people say it is, and it's the world that tells the liesand I tell the truth. Oh, what lies--what lies!"She crumpled19 together a handful of letters from Evelyn M., fromMr. Pepper, from Mrs. Thornbury and Miss Allan, and Susan Warrington.
It was strange, considering how very different these people were,that they used almost the same sentences when they wrote tocongratulate her upon her engagement.
That any one of these people had ever felt what she felt, or couldever feel it, or had even the right to pretend for a single secondthat they were capable of feeling it, appalled20 her much as the churchservice had done, much as the face of the hospital nurse had done;and if they didn't feel a thing why did they go and pretend to?
The simplicity21 and arrogance22 and hardness of her youth, now concentratedinto a single spark as it was by her love of him, puzzled Terence;being engaged had not that effect on him; the world was different,but not in that way; he still wanted the things he had always wanted,and in particular he wanted the companionship of other peoplemore than ever perhaps. He took the letters out of her hand,and protested:
"Of course they're absurd, Rachel; of course they say things justbecause other people say them, but even so, what a nice woman MissAllan is; you can't deny that; and Mrs. Thornbury too; she's gottoo many children I grant you, but if half-a-dozen of them had goneto the bad instead of rising infallibly to the tops of their trees--hasn't she a kind of beauty--of elemental simplicity as Flushingwould say? Isn't she rather like a large old tree murmuringin the moonlight, or a river going on and on and on? By the way,Ralph's been made governor of the Carroway Islands--the youngestgovernor in the service; very good, isn't it?"But Rachel was at present unable to conceive that the vast majorityof the affairs of the world went on unconnected by a single threadwith her own destiny.
"I won't have eleven children," she asserted; "I won't have the eyesof an old woman. She looks at one up and down, up and down,as if one were a horse.""We must have a son and we must have a daughter," said Terence,putting down the letters, "because, let alone the inestimableadvantage of being our children, they'd be so well brought up."They went on to sketch23 an outline of the ideal education--how their daughter should be required from infancy24 to gaze at a largesquare of cardboard painted blue, to suggest thoughts of infinity,for women were grown too practical; and their son--he should be taughtto laugh at great men, that is, at distinguished25 successful men,at men who wore ribands and rose to the tops of their trees.
He should in no way resemble (Rachel added) St. John Hirst.
At this Terence professed26 the greatest admiration27 for St. John Hirst.
Dwelling upon his good qualities he became seriously convinced of them;he had a mind like a torpedo28, he declared, aimed at falsehood.
Where should we all be without him and his like? Choked in weeds;Christians, bigots,--why, Rachel herself, would be a slave with a fanto sing songs to men when they felt drowsy30.
"But you'll never see it!" he exclaimed; "because with all your virtuesyou don't, and you never will, care with every fibre of your beingfor the pursuit of truth! You've no respect for facts, Rachel;you're essentially31 feminine." She did not trouble to deny it,nor did she think good to produce the one unanswerable argumentagainst the merits which Terence admired. St. John Hirst saidthat she was in love with him; she would never forgive that;but the argument was not one to appeal to a man.
"But I like him," she said, and she thought to herself that she alsopitied him, as one pities those unfortunate people who are outside the warmmysterious globe full of changes and miracles in which we ourselvesmove about; she thought that it must be very dull to be St. John Hirst.
She summed up what she felt about him by saying that she wouldnot kiss him supposing he wished it, which was not likely.
As if some apology were due to Hirst for the kiss which she thenbestowed upon him, Terence protested:
"And compared with Hirst I'm a perfect Zany."The clock here struck twelve instead of eleven.
"We're wasting the morning--I ought to be writing my book, and youought to be answering these.""We've only got twenty-one whole mornings left," said Rachel.
"And my father'll be here in a day or two."However, she drew a pen and paper towards her and began to write laboriously,"My dear Evelyn--"Terence, meanwhile, read a novel which some one else had written,a process which he found essential to the composition of his own.
For a considerable time nothing was to be heard but the tickingof the clock and the fitful scratch of Rachel's pen, as she producedphrases which bore a considerable likeness33 to those which shehad condemned34. She was struck by it herself, for she stopped writingand looked up; looked at Terence deep in the arm-chair, lookedat the different pieces of furniture, at her bed in the corner,at the window-pane which showed the branches of a tree filledin with sky, heard the clock ticking, and was amazed at the gulfwhich lay between all that and her sheet of paper. Would thereever be a time when the world was one and indivisible? Even withTerence himself--how far apart they could be, how little she knewwhat was passing in his brain now! She then finished her sentence,which was awkward and ugly, and stated that they were "both very happy,and going to be married in the autumn probably and hope to livein London, where we hope you will come and see us when we get back."Choosing "affectionately," after some further speculation36,rather than sincerely, she signed the letter and was doggedlybeginning on another when Terence remarked, quoting from his book:
"Listen to this, Rachel. 'It is probable that Hugh' (he's the hero,a literary man), 'had not realised at the time of his marriage,any more than the young man of parts and imagination usuallydoes realise, the nature of the gulf35 which separates the needsand desires of the male from the needs and desires of the female.
. . . At first they had been very happy. The walking tour in Switzerlandhad been a time of jolly companionship and stimulating37 revelationsfor both of them. Betty had proved herself the ideal comrade.
. . . They had shouted _Love_ _in_ _the_ _Valley_ to each other acrossthe snowy slopes of the Riffelhorn' (and so on, and so on--I'll skipthe descriptions). . . . 'But in London, after the boy's birth,all was changed. Betty was an admirable mother; but it did nottake her long to find out that motherhood, as that function isunderstood by the mother of the upper middle classes, did not absorbthe whole of her energies. She was young and strong, with healthylimbs and a body and brain that called urgently for exercise.
. . .' (In short she began to give tea-parties.) . . . 'Comingin late from this singular talk with old Bob Murphy in his smoky,book-lined room, where the two men had each unloosened his soulto the other, with the sound of the traffic humming in his ears,and the foggy London sky slung38 tragically39 across his mind . . . hefound women's hats dotted about among his papers. Women's wrapsand absurd little feminine shoes and umbrellas were in the hall.
. . . Then the bills began to come in. . . . He tried to speakfrankly to her. He found her lying on the great polar-bear skinin their bedroom, half-undressed, for they were dining with the Greensin Wilton Crescent, the ruddy firelight making the diamonds winkand twinkle on her bare arms and in the delicious curve of her breast--a vision of adorable femininity. He forgave her all.' (Well, thisgoes from bad to worse, and finally about fifty pages later,Hugh takes a week-end ticket to Swanage and 'has it out with himselfon the downs above Corfe.' . . . Here there's fifteen pages or sowhich we'll skip. The conclusion is . . .) 'They were different.
Perhaps, in the far future, when generations of men had struggledand failed as he must now struggle and fail, woman would be, indeed,what she now made a pretence40 of being--the friend and companion--not the enemy and parasite41 of man.'
"The end of it is, you see, Hugh went back to his wife, poor fellow.
It was his duty, as a married man. Lord, Rachel," he concluded,"will it be like that when we're married?"Instead of answering him she asked,"Why don't people write about the things they do feel?""Ah, that's the difficulty!" he sighed, tossing the book away.
"Well, then, what will it be like when we're married? What arethe things people do feel?"She seemed doubtful.
"Sit on the floor and let me look at you," he commanded.
Resting her chin on his knee, she looked straight at him.
"You're not beautiful," he began, "but I like your face.
I like the way your hair grows down in a point, and your eyes too--they never see anything. Your mouth's too big, and your cheekswould be better if they had more colour in them. But what I likeabout your face is that it makes one wonder what the devil you'rethinking about--it makes me want to do that--" He clenched43 his fistand shook it so near her that she started back, "because now you lookas if you'd blow my brains out. There are moments," he continued,"when, if we stood on a rock together, you'd throw me into the sea."Hypnotised by the force of his eyes in hers, she repeated, "If westood on a rock together--"To be flung into the sea, to be washed hither and thither44, and drivenabout the roots of the world--the idea was incoherently delightful45.
She sprang up, and began moving about the room, bending and thrustingaside the chairs and tables as if she were indeed striking throughthe waters. He watched her with pleasure; she seemed to be cleavinga passage for herself, and dealing46 triumphantly47 with the obstacleswhich would hinder their passage through life.
"It does seem possible!" he exclaimed, "though I've always thoughtit the most unlikely thing in the world--I shall be in lovewith you all my life, and our marriage will be the most excitingthing that's ever been done! We'll never have a moment's peace--"He caught her in his arms as she passed him, and they foughtfor mastery, imagining a rock, and the sea heaving beneath them.
At last she was thrown to the floor, where she lay gasping,and crying for mercy.
"I'm a mermaid48! I can swim," she cried, "so the game's up."Her dress was torn across, and peace being established, she fetcheda needle and thread and began to mend the tear.
"And now," she said, "be quiet and tell me about the world;tell me about everything that's ever happened, and I'll tell you--let me see, what can I tell you?--I'll tell you about Miss Montgomerieand the river party. She was left, you see, with one foot in the boat,and the other on shore."They had spent much time already in thus filling out for the otherthe course of their past lives, and the characters of their friendsand relations, so that very soon Terence knew not only what Rachel'saunts might be expected to say upon every occasion, but also howtheir bedrooms were furnished, and what kind of bonnets49 they wore.
He could sustain a conversation between Mrs. Hunt and Rachel, and carryon a tea-party including the Rev1. William Johnson and Miss Macquoid,the Christian29 Scientists, with remarkable50 likeness to the truth.
But he had known many more people, and was far more highly skilledin the art of narrative51 than Rachel was, whose experiences were,for the most part, of a curiously childlike and humorous kind,so that it generally fell to her lot to listen and ask questions.
He told her not only what had happened, but what he had thought and felt,and sketched52 for her portraits which fascinated her of what other menand women might be supposed to be thinking and feeling, so that shebecame very anxious to go back to England, which was full of people,where she could merely stand in the streets and look at them.
According to him, too, there was an order, a pattern which madelife reasonable, or if that word was foolish, made it of deepinterest anyhow, for sometimes it seemed possible to understandwhy things happened as they did. Nor were people so solitaryand uncommunicative as she believed. She should look for vanity--for vanity was a common quality--first in herself, and thenin Helen, in Ridley, in St. John, they all had their share of it--and she would find it in ten people out of every twelve she met;and once linked together by one such tie she would find themnot separate and formidable, but practically indistinguishable,and she would come to love them when she found that they werelike herself.
If she denied this, she must defend her belief that human beingswere as various as the beasts at the Zoo, which had stripesand manes, and horns and humps; and so, wrestling over the entirelist of their acquaintances, and diverging53 into anecdoteand theory and speculation, they came to know each other.
The hours passed quickly, and seemed to them full to leaking-point.
After a night's solitude they were always ready to begin again.
The virtues which Mrs. Ambrose had once believed to existin free talk between men and women did in truth exist for bothof them, although not quite in the measure she prescribed.
Far more than upon the nature of sex they dwelt upon the natureof poetry, but it was true that talk which had no boundariesdeepened and enlarged the strangely small bright view of a girl.
In return for what he could tell her she brought him such curiosityand sensitiveness of perception, that he was led to doubtwhether any gift bestowed32 by much reading and living was quitethe equal of that for pleasure and pain. What would experiencegive her after all, except a kind of ridiculous formal balance,like that of a drilled dog in the street? He looked at her faceand wondered how it would look in twenty years' time, when the eyeshad dulled, and the forehead wore those little persistent54 wrinkleswhich seem to show that the middle-aged55 are facing something hardwhich the young do not see? What would the hard thing be for them,he wondered? Then his thoughts turned to their life in England.
The thought of England was delightful, for together they would seethe56 old things freshly; it would be England in June, and there would beJune nights in the country; and the nightingales singing in the lanes,into which they could steal when the room grew hot; and there wouldbe English meadows gleaming with water and set with stolid57 cows,and clouds dipping low and trailing across the green hills.
As he sat in the room with her, he wished very often to be backagain in the thick of life, doing things with Rachel.
He crossed to the window and exclaimed, "Lord, how good it is tothink of lanes, muddy lanes, with brambles and nettles58, you know,and real grass fields, and farmyards with pigs and cows, and menwalking beside carts with pitchforks--there's nothing to comparewith that here--look at the stony59 red earth, and the bright blue sea,and the glaring white houses--how tired one gets of it! And the air,without a stain or a wrinkle. I'd give anything for a sea mist."Rachel, too, had been thinking of the English country: the flat landrolling away to the sea, and the woods and the long straight roads,where one can walk for miles without seeing any one, and the greatchurch towers and the curious houses clustered in the valleys,and the birds, and the dusk, and the rain falling against the windows.
"But London, London's the place," Terence continued. They lookedtogether at the carpet, as though London itself were to be seenthere lying on the floor, with all its spires60 and pinnacles61 prickingthrough the smoke.
"On the whole, what I should like best at this moment,"Terence pondered, "would be to find myself walking down Kingsway,by those big placards, you know, and turning into the Strand62.
Perhaps I might go and look over Waterloo Bridge for a moment.
Then I'd go along the Strand past the shops with all the newbooks in them, and through the little archway into the Temple.
I always like the quiet after the uproar63. You hear your own footstepssuddenly quite loud. The Temple's very pleasant. I think I shouldgo and see if I could find dear old Hodgkin--the man who writesbooks about Van Eyck, you know. When I left England he was very sadabout his tame magpie64. He suspected that a man had poisoned it.
And then Russell lives on the next staircase. I think you'dlike him. He's a passion for Handel. Well, Rachel," he concluded,dismissing the vision of London, "we shall be doing that togetherin six weeks' time, and it'll be the middle of June then--and Junein London--my God! how pleasant it all is!""And we're certain to have it too," she said. "It isn't as if wewere expecting a great deal--only to walk about and look at things.""Only a thousand a year and perfect freedom," he replied.
"How many people in London d'you think have that?""And now you've spoilt it," she complained. "Now we've got to thinkof the horrors." She looked grudgingly65 at the novel which had oncecaused her perhaps an hour's discomfort66, so that she had never openedit again, but kept it on her table, and looked at it occasionally,as some medieval monk67 kept a skull68, or a crucifix to remind himof the frailty69 of the body.
"Is it true, Terence," she demanded, "that women die with bugscrawling across their faces?""I think it's very probable," he said. "But you must admit,Rachel, that we so seldom think of anything but ourselvesthat an occasional twinge is really rather pleasant."Accusing him of an affection of cynicism which was just as bad assentimentality itself, she left her position by his side and knelt uponthe window sill, twisting the curtain tassels70 between her fingers.
A vague sense of dissatisfaction filled her.
"What's so detestable in this country," she exclaimed, "is the blue--always blue sky and blue sea. It's like a curtain--all the thingsone wants are on the other side of that. I want to know what's goingon behind it. I hate these divisions, don't you, Terence? One personall in the dark about another person. Now I liked the Dalloways,"she continued, "and they're gone. I shall never see them again.
Just by going on a ship we cut ourselves off entirely14 from the restof the world. I want to see England there--London there--all sortsof people--why shouldn't one? why should one be shut up all by oneselfin a room?"While she spoke71 thus half to herself and with increasing vagueness,because her eye was caught by a ship that had just come into the bay,she did not see that Terence had ceased to stare contentedly72 in frontof him, and was looking at her keenly and with dissatisfaction.
She seemed to be able to cut herself adrift from him, and to pass awayto unknown places where she had no need of him. The thought rousedhis jealousy73.
"I sometimes think you're not in love with me and never will be,"he said energetically. She started and turned round at his words.
"I don't satisfy you in the way you satisfy me," he continued.
"There's something I can't get hold of in you. You don't want meas I want you--you're always wanting something else."He began pacing up and down the room.
"Perhaps I ask too much," he went on. "Perhaps it isn't reallypossible to have what I want. Men and women are too different.
You can't understand--you don't understand--"He came up to where she stood looking at him in silence.
It seemed to her now that what he was saying was perfectly74 true,and that she wanted many more things than the love of one human being--the sea, the sky. She turned again the looked at the distant blue,which was so smooth and serene75 where the sky met the sea; she couldnot possibly want only one human being.
"Or is it only this damnable engagement?" he continued. "Let's bemarried here, before we go back--or is it too great a risk?
Are we sure we want to marry each other?"They began pacing up and down the room, but although they camevery near each other in their pacing, they took care not to toucheach other. The hopelessness of their position overcame them both.
They were impotent; they could never love each other sufficientlyto overcome all these barriers, and they could never be satisfiedwith less. Realising this with intolerable keenness she stoppedin front of him and exclaimed:
"Let's break it off, then."The words did more to unite them than any amount of argument.
As if they stood on the edge of a precipice76 they clung together.
They knew that they could not separate; painful and terrible itmight be, but they were joined for ever. They lapsed77 into silence,and after a time crept together in silence. Merely to be so closesoothed them, and sitting side by side the divisions disappeared,and it seemed as if the world were once more solid and entire, and as if,in some strange way, they had grown larger and stronger.
It was long before they moved, and when they moved it was withgreat reluctance78. They stood together in front of the looking-glass,and with a brush tried to make themselves look as if they had beenfeeling nothing all the morning, neither pain nor happiness.
But it chilled them to see themselves in the glass, for instead ofbeing vast and indivisible they were really very small and separate,the size of the glass leaving a large space for the reflectionof other things.
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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refreshingly
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coherence
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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laboriously
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philosophically
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hind
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interval
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meditation
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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bowels
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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owl
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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torpedo
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| n.水雷，地雷；v.用鱼雷破坏 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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condemned
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| 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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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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parasite
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| n.寄生虫；寄生菌；食客 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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mermaid
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| n.美人鱼 | |
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bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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diverging
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| 分开( diverge的现在分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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seethe
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| vi.拥挤，云集；发怒，激动，骚动 | |
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stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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magpie
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| n.喜欢收藏物品的人，喜鹊，饶舌者 | |
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grudgingly
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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tassels
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| n.穗( tassel的名词复数 )；流苏状物；（植物的）穗；玉蜀黍的穗状雄花v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须( tassel的第三人称单数 )；使抽穗， （为了使作物茁壮生长）摘去穗状雄花；用流苏装饰 | |
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spoke
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| 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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contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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