On the Pyrenean lands, all bushes and vast woods, the melancholy2 of the rainy nights of declining seasons fell slowly, enveloping3 like a shroud4, while Ramuntcho walked on the moss-covered path, without noise, shod with rope soles, supple5 and silent in his mountaineer's tread.
Ramuntcho was coming on foot from a very long distance, ascending6 the regions neighboring the Bay of Biscay, toward his isolated7 house which stood above, in a great deal of shade, near the Spanish frontier.
Around the solitary8 passer-by, who went up so quickly without trouble and whose march in sandals was not heard, distances more and more profound deepened on all sides, blended in twilight9 and mist.
The autumn, the autumn marked itself everywhere. The corn, herb of the lowlands, so magnificently green in the Spring, displayed shades of dead straw in the depths of the valleys, and, on all the summits, beeches10 and oaks shed their leaves. The air was almost cold; an odorous humidity came out of the mossy earth and, at times, there came from above a light shower. One felt it near and anguishing11, that season of clouds and of long rains, which returns every time with the same air of bringing the definitive13 exhaustion14 of saps and irremediable death,—but which passes like all things and which one forgets at the following spring.
Everywhere, in the wet of the leaves strewing15 the earth, in the wet of the herbs long and bent16, there was a sadness of death, a dumb resignation to fecund17 decomposition18.
But the autumn, when it comes to put an end to the plants, brings only a sort of far-off warning to man, a little more durable19, who resists several winters and lets himself be lured20 several times by the charm of spring. Man, in the rainy nights of October and of November, feels especially the instinctive21 desire to seek shelter at home, to warm himself at the hearth22, under the roof which so many thousand years amassed23 have taught him progressively to build.—And Ramuntcho felt awakening24 in the depths of his being the old ancestral aspirations25 for the Basque home of the country, the isolated home, unattached to the neighboring homes. He hastened his steps the more toward the primitive26 dwelling27 where his mother was waiting for him.
Here and there, one perceived them in the distance, indistinct in the twilight, the Basque houses, very distant from one another, dots white or grayish, now in the depth of some gorge28 steeped in darkness, then on some ledge29 of the mountains with summits lost in the obscure sky. Almost inconsequential are these human habitations, in the immense and confused entirety of things; inconsequential and even annihilated30 quite, at this hour, before the majesty31 of the solitude32 and of the eternal forest nature.
Ramuntcho ascended33 rapidly, lithe34, bold and young, still a child, likely to play on his road as little mountaineers play, with a rock, a reed, or a twig35 that one whittles36 while walking. The air was growing sharper, the environment harsher, and already he ceased to hear the cries of the curlews, their rusty-pulley cries, on the rivers beneath. But Ramuntcho was singing one of those plaintive37 songs of the olden time, which are still transmitted in the depths of the distant lands, and his naive38 voice went through the mist or the rain, among the wet branches of the oaks, under the grand shroud, more and more sombre, of isolation39, of autumn and of night.
He stopped for an instant, pensive40, to see a cart drawn41 by oxen pass at a great distance above him. The cowboy who drove the slow team sang also; through a bad and rocky path, they descended42 into a ravine bathed in shadows already nocturnal.
And soon they disappeared in a turn of the path, masked suddenly by trees, as if they had vanished in an abyss. Then Ramuntcho felt the grasp of an unexpected melancholy, unexplained like most of his complex impressions, and, with an habitual43 gesture, while he resumed his less alert march, he brought down like a visor on his gray eyes, very sharp and very soft, the crown of his woolen44 Basque cap.
Why?—What had to do with him this cart, this singing cowboy whom he did not even know? Evidently nothing—and yet, for having seen them disappear into a lodging45, as they did doubtless every night, into some farm isolated in a lowland, a more exact realization46 had come to him of the humble47 life of the peasant, attached to the soil and to the native field, of those human lives as destitute48 of joy as beasts of burden, but with declines more prolonged and more lamentable49. And, at the same time, through his mind had passed the intuitive anxiety for other places, for the thousand other things that one may see or do in this world and which one may enjoy; a chaos50 of troubling half thoughts, of atavic reminiscences and of phantoms51 had furtively52 marked themselves in the depths of his savage53 child's mind—
For Ramuntcho was a mixture of two races very different and of two beings separated, if one may say it, by an abyss of several generations. Created by the sad fantasy of one of the refined personages of our dazzled epoch54, he had been inscribed55 at his birth as the “son of an unknown father” and he bore no other name than that of his mother. So, he did not feel that he was quite similar to his companions in games and healthy fatigues57.
Silent for a moment, he walked less quickly toward his house, on the deserted58 paths winding59 on the heights. In him, the chaos of other things, of the luminous60 “other places”, of the splendors61 or of the terrors foreign to his own life, agitated62 itself confusedly, trying to disentangle itself—But no, all this, being indistinct and incomprehensible, remained formless in the darkness.
At last, thinking no more of it, he began to sing his song again. The song told, in monotonous63 couplets, the complaint of a linen64 weaver65 whose lover in a distant war prolonged his absence. It was written in that mysterious Euskarian language, the age of which seems incalculable and the origin of which remains66 unknown. And little by little, under the influence of the ancient melody, of the wind and of the solitude, Ramuntcho found himself as he was at the beginning of his walk, a simple Basque mountaineer, sixteen or seventeen years old, formed like a man, but retaining the ignorance and the candor67 of a little boy.
Soon he perceived Etchezar, his parish, its belfry massive as the dungeon68 of a fortress69; near the church, some houses were grouped; others, more numerous, had preferred to be disseminated70 in the surroundings, among trees, in ravines or on bluffs71. The night fell entirely72, hastily that evening, because of the sombre veils hooked to the great summits.
Around this village, above or in the valleys, the Basque country appeared, at that moment, like a confusion of gigantic, obscure masses. Long mists disarranged the perspectives; all the distances, all the depths had become inappreciable, the changing mountains seemed to have grown taller in the nebulous phantasmagoria of night. The hour, one knew not why, became strangely solemn, as if the shade of past centuries was to come out of the soil. On the vast lifting-up which is called the Pyrenees, one felt something soaring which was, perhaps, the finishing mind of that race, the fragments of which have been preserved and to which Ramuntcho belonged by his mother—
And the child, composed of two essences so diverse, who was walking alone toward his dwelling, through the night and the rain, began again in the depth of his double being to feel the anxiety of inexplicable73 reminiscences.
At last he arrived in front of his house,—which was very elevated, in the Basque fashion, with old wooden balconies under narrow windows, the glass of which threw into the night the light of a lamp. As he came near the entrance, the light noise of his walk became feebler in the thickness of the dead leaves: the leaves of those plane-trees shaped like vaults74 which, according to the usage of the land, form a sort of atrium before each dwelling.
She recognized from afar the steps of her son, the serious Franchita, pale and straight in her black clothes,—the one who formerly75 had loved and followed the stranger; then, who, feeling her desertion approaching, had returned courageously76 to the village in order to inhabit alone the dilapidated house of her deceased parents. Rather than to live in the vast city, and to be troublesome and a solicitor77 there, she had quickly resolved to depart, to renounce78 everything, to make a simple Basque peasant of that little Ramuntcho, who, at his entrance in life, had worn gowns embroidered79 in white silk.
It was fifteen years ago, fifteen years, when she returned, clandestinely80, at a fall of night similar to this one. In the first days of this return, dumb and haughty81 to her former companions from fear of their disdain82, she would go out only to go to church, her black cloth mantilla lowered on her eyes. Then, at length, when curiosity was appeased83, she had returned to her habits, so valiantly84 and so irreproachably85 that all had forgiven her.
To greet and embrace her son she smiled with joy and tenderness, but, silent by nature and reserved as both were, they said to each other only what it was useful to say.
He sat at his accustomed place to eat the soup and the smoking dish which she served to him without speaking. The room, carefully kalsomined, was made gay by the sudden light of a flame of branches in the tall and wide chimney ornamented86 with a festoon of white calico. In frames, hooked in good order, there were images of Ramuntcho's first communion and different figures of saints with Basque legends; then the Virgin87 of Pilar, the Virgin of Anguish12, and rosaries, and blessed palms. The kitchen utensils88 shone, in a line on shelves sealed to the walls; every shelf ornamented with one of those pink paper frills, cut in designs, which are manufactured in Spain and on which are printed, invariably, series of personages dancing with castanets, or scenes in the lives of the toreadors. In this white interior, before this joyful89 and clear chimney, one felt an impression of home, a tranquil90 welfare, which was augmented91 by the notion of the vast, wet, surrounding night, of the grand darkness of the valleys, of the mountains and of the woods.
Franchita, as every evening, looked long at her son, looked at him embellishing92 and growing, taking more and more an air of decision and of force, as his brown mustache was more and more marked above his fresh lips.
When he had supped, eaten with his young mountaineer's appetite several slices of bread and drunk two glasses of cider, he rose, saying:
“I am going to sleep, for we have to work tonight.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the mother, “and when are you to get up?”
“At one o'clock, as soon as the moon sets. They will whistle under the window.”
“What is it?”
“With whom are you going?”
“The same as usual: Arrochkoa, Florentino and the Iragola brothers. It is, as it was the other night, for Itchoua, with whom I have just made an engagement. Good-night, mother—Oh, we shall not be out late and, sure, I will be back before mass.”
Then, Franchita leaned her head on the solid shoulder of her son, in a coaxing94 humor almost infantile, different suddenly from her habitual manner, and, her cheek against his, she remained tenderly leaning, as if to say in a confident abandonment of her will: “I am still troubled a little by those night undertakings95; but, when I reflect, what you wish is always well; I am dependent on you, and you are everything—”
On the shoulder of the stranger, formerly, it was her custom to lean and to abandon herself thus, in the time when she loved him.
When Ramuntcho had gone to his little room, she stayed thinking for a longer time than usual before resuming her needlework. So, it became decidedly his trade, this night work in which one risks receiving the bullets of Spain's carbineers!—He had begun for amusement, in bravado97, like most of them, and as his friend Arrochkoa was beginning, in the same band as he; then, little by little, he had made a necessity of this continual adventure in dark nights; he deserted more and more, for this rude trade, the open air workshop of the carpenter where she had placed him as an apprentice98 to carve beams out of oak trunks.
And that was what he would be in life, her little Ramuntcho, so coddled formerly in his white gown and for whom she had formed naively99 so many dreams: a smuggler100! Smuggler and pelota player,—two things which go well together and which are essentially101 Basque.
She hesitated still, however, to let him follow that unexpected vocation102. Not in disdain for smugglers, oh, no, for her father had been a smuggler; her two brothers also; the elder killed by a Spanish bullet in the forehead, one night that he was swimming across the Bidassoa, the second a refugee in America to escape the Bayonne prison; both respected for their audacity103 and their strength. No, but he, Ramuntcho, the son of the stranger, he, doubtless, might have had pretensions104 to lead a less harsh life than these men if, in a hasty and savage moment, she had not separated him from his father and brought him back to the Basque mountains. In truth, he was not heartless, Ramuntcho's father; when, fatally, he had wearied of her, he had made some efforts not to let her see it and never would he have abandoned her with her child if, in her pride, she had not quitted him. Perhaps it would be her duty to-day to write to him, to ask him to think of his son—
And now the image of Gracieuse presented itself naturally to her mind, as it did every time she thought of Ramuntcho's future. She was the little betrothed105 whom she had been wishing for him for ten years. (In the sections of country unacquainted with modern fashions, it is usual to marry when very young and often to know and select one another for husband and wife in the first years of life.) A little girl with hair fluffed in a gold mist, daughter of a friend of her childhood, of a certain Dolores Detcharry, who had been always conceited—and who had remained contemptuous since the epoch of the great fault.
Certainly, the father's intervention106 in the future of Ramuntcho would have a decisive influence in obtaining the hand of that girl—and would permit even of asking it of Dolores with haughtiness107, after the ancient quarrel. But Franchita felt a great uneasiness in her, increasing as the thought of addressing herself to that man became more precise. And then, she recalled the look, so often sombre, of the stranger, she recalled his vague words of infinite lassitude, of incomprehensible despair; he had the air of seeing always, beyond her horizon, distant abysses and darkness, and, although he was not an insulter of sacred things, never would he pray, thus giving to her this excess of remorse108, of having allied109 herself to some pagan to whom heaven would be closed forever. His friends were similar to him, refined also, faithless, prayerless, exchanging among themselves in frivolous110 words abysmal111 thoughts.—Oh, if Ramuntcho by contact with them were to become similar to them all!—desert the churches, fly from the sacraments and the mass!—Then, she remembered the letters of her old father,—now decomposed112 in the profound earth, under a slab113 of granite114, near the foundations of his parish church—those letters in Euskarian tongue which he wrote to her, after the first months of indignation and of silence, in the city where she had dragged her fault. “At least, my poor Franchita, my daughter, are you in a country where the men are pious115 and go to church regularly?—” Oh! no, they were hardly pious, the men of the great city, not more the fashionable ones who were in the society of Ramuntcho's father than the humblest laborers116 in the suburban117 district where she lived hidden; all carried away by the same current far from the hereditary118 dogmas, far from the antique symbols.—And Ramuntcho, in such surroundings, how would he resist?—
Other reasons, less important perhaps, retained her also. Her haughty dignity, which in that city had maintained her honest and solitary, revolted truly at the idea that she would have to reappear as a solicitor before her former lover. Then, her superior commonsense119, which nothing had ever been able to lead astray or to dazzle, told her that it was too late now to change anything; that Ramuntcho, until now ignorant and free, would not know how to attain120 the dangerous regions where the intelligence of his father had elevated itself, but that he would languish121 at the bottom, like one outclassed. And, in fine, a sentiment which she hardly confessed to herself, lingered powerfully in the depths of her heart: the fear of losing her son, of guiding him no longer, of holding him no longer, of having him no longer.—And so, in that instant of decisive reflection, after having hesitated for years, she inclined more and more to remain stubborn in her silence with regard to the stranger and to let pass humbly122 near her the life of her Ramuntcho, under the protecting looks of the Virgin and the saints.—There remained unsolved the question of Gracieuse Detcharry.—Well, she would marry, in spite of everything, her son, smuggler and poor though he be! With her instinct of a mother somewhat savagely123 loving, she divined that the little girl was enamoured enough not to fall out of love ever; she had seen this in her fifteen year old black eyes, obstinate124 and grave under the golden nimbus of her hair. Gracieuse marrying Ramuntcho for his charm alone, in spite of and against maternal125 will!—The rancor126 and vindictiveness127 that lurked128 in the mind of Franchita rejoiced suddenly at that great triumph over the pride of Dolores.
Around the isolated house where, under the grand silence of midnight, she decided96 alone her son's future, the spirit of the Basque ancestors passed, sombre and jealous also, disdainful of the stranger, fearful of impiety129, of changes, of evolutions of races;—the spirit of the Basque ancestors, the old immutable130 spirit which still maintains that people with eyes turned toward the anterior131 ages; the mysterious antique spirit by which the children are led to act as before them their fathers had acted, at the side of the same mountains, in the same villages, around the same belfries.—
The noise of steps now, in the dark, outside!—Someone walking softly in sandals on the thickness of the plane-tree leaves strewing the soil.—Then, a whistled appeal.—
What, already!—Already one o'clock in the morning—!
Quite resolved now, she opened the door to the chief smuggler with a
smile of greeting that the latter had never seen in her:
“Come in, Itchoua,” she said, “warm yourself—while I go wake up my
son.”
A tall and large man, that Itchoua, thin, with a thick chest, clean shaven like a priest, in accordance with the fashion of the old time Basque; under the cap which he never took off, a colorless face, inexpressive, cut as with a pruning132 hook, and recalling the beardless personages archaically133 drawn on the missals of the fifteenth century. Above his hollow cheeks, the breadth of the jaws134, the jutting135 out of the muscles of the neck gave the idea of his extreme force. He was of the Basque type, excessively accentuated136; eyes caved-in too much under the frontal arcade137; eyebrows138 of rare length, the points of which, lowered as on the figures of tearful madonnas, almost touched the hair at the temples. Between thirty and fifty years, it was impossible to assign an age to him. His name was Jose-Maria Gorosteguy; but, according to the custom he was known in the country by the surname of Itchoua (the Blind) given to him in jest formerly, because of his piercing sight which plunged139 in the night like that of cats. He was a practising Christian140, a church warden141 of his parish and a chorister with a thundering voice. He was famous also for his power of resistance to fatigue56, being capable of climbing the Pyrenean slopes for hours at racing142 speed with heavy loads on his back.
Ramuntcho came down soon, rubbing his eyelids143, still heavy from a youthful sleep, and, at his aspect, the gloomy visage of Itchoua was illuminated144 by a smile. A continual seeker for energetic and strong boys that he might enroll145 in his band, and knowing how to keep them in spite of small wages, by a sort of special point of honor, he was an expert in legs and in shoulders as well as in temperaments146, and he thought a great deal of his new recruit.
Franchita, before she would let them go, leaned her head again on her son's neck; then she escorted the two men to the threshold of her door, opened on the immense darkness,—and recited piously147 the Pater for them, while they went into the dark night, into the rain, into the chaos of the mountains, toward the obscure frontier.
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1
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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3
enveloping
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的现在分词 ) | |
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shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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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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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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anguishing
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| v.（尤指心理上的）极度的痛苦( anguish的现在分词 ) | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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13
definitive
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| adj.确切的，权威性的；最后的，决定性的 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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15
strewing
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| v.撒在…上( strew的现在分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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fecund
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| adj.多产的，丰饶的，肥沃的 | |
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decomposition
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| n. 分解, 腐烂, 崩溃 | |
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durable
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| adj.持久的，耐久的 | |
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lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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amassed
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| v.积累，积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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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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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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whittles
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| v.切，削（木头），使逐渐变小( whittle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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38
naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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39
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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40
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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41
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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42
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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43
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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44
woolen
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| adj.羊毛(制)的；毛纺的 | |
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45
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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46
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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47
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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48
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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49
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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50
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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51
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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52
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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53
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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54
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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55
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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56
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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57
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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58
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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59
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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60
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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61
splendors
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| n.华丽( splendor的名词复数 )；壮丽；光辉；显赫 | |
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62
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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63
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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64
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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65
weaver
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| n.织布工；编织者 | |
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66
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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67
candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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68
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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69
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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70
disseminated
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| 散布，传播( disseminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
bluffs
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| 恐吓( bluff的名词复数 )； 悬崖； 峭壁 | |
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72
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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73
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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74
vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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75
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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76
courageously
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| ad.勇敢地，无畏地 | |
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77
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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78
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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79
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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80
clandestinely
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| adv.秘密地，暗中地 | |
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81
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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82
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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83
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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84
valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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85
irreproachably
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| adv.不可非难地，无过失地 | |
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86
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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88
utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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89
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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90
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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91
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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92
embellishing
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| v.美化( embellish的现在分词 )；装饰；修饰；润色 | |
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93
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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94
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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95
undertakings
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| 企业( undertaking的名词复数 )； 保证； 殡仪业； 任务 | |
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96
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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97
bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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98
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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99
naively
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| adv. 天真地 | |
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100
smuggler
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| n.走私者 | |
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101
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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102
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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103
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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104
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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105
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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106
intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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107
haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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108
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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109
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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110
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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111
abysmal
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| adj.无底的，深不可测的，极深的；糟透的，极坏的；完全的 | |
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112
decomposed
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| 已分解的，已腐烂的 | |
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113
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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114
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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115
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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116
laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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117
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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118
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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119
commonsense
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| adj.有常识的；明白事理的；注重实际的 | |
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120
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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121
languish
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| vi.变得衰弱无力，失去活力，（植物等）凋萎 | |
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122
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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123
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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124
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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125
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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126
rancor
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| n.深仇，积怨 | |
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127
vindictiveness
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| 恶毒；怀恨在心 | |
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128
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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129
impiety
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| n.不敬；不孝 | |
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130
immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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131
anterior
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| adj.较早的；在前的 | |
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132
pruning
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| n.修枝，剪枝，修剪v.修剪（树木等）( prune的现在分词 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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133
archaically
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| 古老的 | |
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134
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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135
jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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136
accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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137
arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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138
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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139
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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140
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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141
warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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142
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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143
eyelids
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| 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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144
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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145
enroll
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| v.招收；登记；入学；参军；成为会员（英)enrol | |
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146
temperaments
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| 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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147
piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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