That same week was chronicled one of the worst gales1 that had ever been known to rage on the English coast. From all parts of the country came accounts of the havoc3 wrought4 on the budding fruit-trees by the pitiless wind and rain,—harrowing stories of floods and shipwrecks5 came with every fresh despatch6 of news,—great Atlantic steamers were reported “missing,” and many a fishing-smack went down in sight of land, with all the shrieking8, struggling souls on board. For four days and four nights the terrific hurricane revelled9 in destruction, its wrath10 only giving way to occasional pauses of heavy silence more awful than its uproar11; and, by the rocky shores of Ilfracombe, the scene of nature’s riot, confusion and terror attained12 to a height of indescribable grandeur13. The sea rose in precipitous mountain-masses, and anon wallowed in black abysmal14 chasms,—the clouds flew in a fierce rack overhead like the forms of huge witches astride on eagle-shaped monsters,—and with it all there was a close heat in the air, notwithstanding the tearing wind,—a heat and a sulphureous smell, suggestive of some pent-up hellish fire that but waited its opportunity to break forth15 and consume the land. On the third day of the gale2, particularly, this curious sense of suffocation16 was almost unbearable17, and Dr. Kremlin, looking out of his high tower window in the morning at the unquiet sky and savage18 sea, wondered, as the wind scudded19 past, why it brought no freshness with it, but only an increased heat, like the “simoom” of the desert.
“It is one of those days on which it would seem that God is really angry,” mused20 Kremlin—“angry with Himself, and still more angry with His creature.”
The wind whistled and shrieked21 in his ears as though it strove to utter some wild response to his thought,—the sullen22 roaring and battling of the waves on the beach below sounded like the clashing armour23 of contesting foes,—and the great Disc in the tower revolved25, or appeared to revolve24, more rapidly than its wont26, its incessant27 whirr-whirring being always distinctly heard above the fury of the storm. To this, his great work, the chief labour of his life, Dr. Kremlin’s eyes turned wistfully, as, after a brief observation of the turbulent weather, he shut his window fast against the sheeting rain. Its shining surface, polished as steel, reflected the lights and shadows of the flying storm-clouds, in strange and beautiful groups like moving landscapes—now and then it flashed with a curious lightning glare of brilliancy as it swung round to its appointed measure, even as a planet swings in its orbit. A new feature had been added to the generally weird28 effect of Kremlin’s strange studio or workshop,—this was a heavy black curtain made of three thicknesses of cloth sewn closely together, and weighted at the end with bullet-shaped balls of lead. It was hung on a thick iron pole, and ran easily on indiarubber rings,—when drawn29 forward it covered the Disc completely from the light without interfering30 with any portion of its mechanism31. Three days since, Kremlin had received El-Râmi’s letter telling him what the monk32 from Cyprus had said concerning the “Third Ray” or the messages from Mars, and, eagerly grasping at the smallest chance of any clue to the labyrinth33 of the Light-vibrations, he had lost no time in making all the preparations necessary for this grand effort, this attempt to follow the track of the flashing signal whose meaning, though apparently35 unintelligible36, might yet with patience be discovered. So, following the suggestions received, he had arranged the sable37 drapery in such a manner that it could be drawn close across the Disc, or, in a second, be flung back to expose the whole surface of the crystal to the light,—all was ready for the trial, when the great storm came and interfered38. Dense39 clouds covered the firmament,—and not for one single moment since he received the monk’s message had Kremlin seen the stars. However, he was neither discouraged nor impatient,—he had not worked amid perplexities so long to be disheartened now by a mere40 tempest, which in the ordinary course of nature would wear itself out, and leave the heavens all the clearer both for reflection and observation. Yet he, as a meteorologist, was bound to confess that the fury of the gale was of an exceptional character, and that the height to which the sea lifted itself before stooping savagely41 towards the land and breaking itself in hissing42 spouts43 of spray was stupendous, and in a manner appalling44. Karl, his servant, was entirely45 horrified46 at the scene,—he hated the noise of the wind and waves, and more than all he hated the incessant melancholy47 scream of the sea-birds that wheeled in flocks round and round the tower.
“It is for all the world like the shrieks48 of drowning men”—he said, and shivered, thinking of the pleasantly devious49 ways of the Rhine and its placid50 flowing,—placid even in flood, as compared with the howling ocean, all madness and movement and terror. Twice during that turbulent day Karl had asked his master whether the tower “shook.”
“Of course!” answered Dr. Kremlin with a smile in his mild eyes—“Of course it shakes,—it can hardly do otherwise in such a gale. Even a cottage shakes in a fierce wind.”
“Oh yes, a cottage shakes,” said Karl meditatively—“but then if a cottage blows away altogether it doesn’t so much matter. Cottages are frequently blown away in America, so they say, with all the family sitting inside. That’s not a bad way of travelling. But when a tower flies through the air it seldom carries the family with it except in bits.”
Kremlin laughed, but did not pursue the conversation, and Karl went about his duties in a gloomy humour, not common to his cheerful temperament51. He really had enough to put him out, all things considered. Soot52 fell down the kitchen chimney—a huge brick also landed itself with a crash in the fender,—there were crevices53 in the doors and windows through which the wind played wailing54 sounds like a “coronach” on the bagpipes;—and then, when he went out into the courtyard to empty the pail of soot he had taken from the grate, he came suddenly face to face with an ugly bird, whose repulsive55 aspect quite transfixed him for the moment and held him motionless, staring at it. It was a cormorant56, and it stood huddled57 on the pavement, blinking its disagreeable eyes at Karl,—its floppy58 wings were drenched59 with the rain, and all over the yard was the wet trail of its feathers and feet.
“Shoo!” cried Karl, waving his arms and the pail of soot all together—“Shoo! Beast!”
Karl grew savage, and, running back to the kitchen, brought shovel61, tongs62 and a broom, all of which implements63 he flung in turn at the horrid-looking creature, which, finally startled, rose in air uttering dismal64 cries as it circled higher and higher, the while Karl watched its flight,—higher and higher it soared, till at last he ran out of the courtyard to see where it went. Round and round the house it flew, seeming to be literally65 tossed to and fro by the wind, its unpleasant shriek7 still echoing distinctly above the deep boom of the sea, till suddenly it made a short sweep downwards66, and sat on the top of the tower like a squat67 black phantom68 of the storm.
“Nasty brute69!” said Karl, shaking his clenched70 fist at it—“If the Herr Doctor were like any other man, which he is not, he would have a gun in the house, and I’d shoot that vile71 screamer. Now it will sit cackling and yelling there all day and all night perhaps. Pleasant, certainly!”
And he went indoors, grumbling72 more than ever. Everything seemed to go wrong that day,—the fire wouldn’t burn,—the kettle wouldn’t boil,—and he felt inwardly vexed73 that his master was not as morose74 and irritable75 as himself. But, as it happened, Dr. Kremlin was in a singularly sweet and placid frame of mind,—the noise of the gale seemed to soothe76 rather than agitate77 his nerves. For one thing, he was much better in health, and looked years younger than when El-Râmi visited him, bringing the golden flask78 whose contents were guaranteed to give him a new lease of life. So far indeed the elixir79 had done its work,—and to all appearances he might have been a well-preserved man of about fifty, rather than what he actually was, close upon his seventy-fourth year. As he could take no particularly interesting or useful observations from his Disc during the progress of the tempest, he amused himself with the task of perfecting one or two of his “Light-Maps” as he called them, and he kept at this work with the greatest assiduity and devotion all the morning. These maps were wonderfully interesting, if only for the extreme beauty, intricacy and regularity80 of the patterns,—one set of “vibrations” as copied from the reflections on the Disc formed the exact shape of a branch of coral,—another gave the delicate outline of a frond81 of fern. All the lines ran in waves,—none of them were straight. Most of them were in small ripples,—others were larger—some again curved broadly, and turned round in a double twist, forming the figure 8 at long intervals82 of distance, but all resolved themselves into a definite pattern of some sort.
“Pictures in the sky!” he mused, as he patiently measured and re-touched the lines. “And all different!—not two of them alike! What do they all mean?—for they must mean something. Nothing—not the lowest atom that exists is without a meaning and a purpose. Shall I ever discover the solution to the Light-mystery, or is it so much God’s secret that it will never become Man’s?”
So he wondered, puzzling himself, with a good deal of pleasure in the puzzle. He was happy in his work, despite its strange and difficult character,—El-Râmi’s elixir had so calmed and equalised his physical temperament that he was no longer conscious of worry or perplexity. Satisfied that he had years of life before him in which to work, he was content to let things take their course, and he laboured on in the spirit that all labour claims, “without haste, without rest.” Feverish83 hurry in work,—eagerness to get the rewards of it before conscientiously84 deserving them,—this disposition85 is a curse of the age we live in and the ruin of true art,—and it was this delirium86 of haste that had seized Kremlin when he had summoned El-Râmi to his aid. Now, haste seemed unnecessary;—there was plenty of time, and—possessed of the slight clue to the “Third Ray,”—plenty of hope as well, or so he thought.
In the afternoon the gale gradually abated87, and sank to a curiously88 sudden dead calm. The sea still lifted toppling foam-crowned peaks to the sky, and still uttered shattering roars of indignation,—but there was a break in the clouds and a pale suggestion of sunshine. As the evening closed in, the strange dull quietness of the air deepened,—the black mists on the horizon flashed into stormy red for an instant when the sun set,—and then darkened again into an ominous89 greenish-gray. Karl, who was busy cooking his master’s dinner, stopped stirring some sauce he was making, to listen, as it were, to the silence,—the only sound to be heard was the long roll and swish of the sea on the beach,—and even the scream of the gulls90 was stilled. Spoon in hand he went out in the yard to observe the weather; all movement in the heavens seemed to have been suddenly checked, and masses of black cloud rested where they were, apparently motionless. And while he looked up at the sky he could hardly avoid taking the top of the tower also into his view;—there, to his intense disgust, still sate91 his enemy of the morning, the cormorant. Something that was not quite choice in the way of language escaped his lips as he saw the hateful thing;—its presence was detestable to him and filled his mind with morbid92 imaginations which no amount of reasoning could chase away.
“And yet what is it but a bird!” he argued with himself angrily, as he went indoors and resumed his cooking operations—“A bird of prey93, fond of carrion—nothing more. Why should I bother myself about it? If I told the Herr Doctor that it was there, squatting94 at ease on his tower, he would very likely open the window, invite the brute in, and offer it food and shelter for the night. For he is one of those kind-hearted people who think that all the animal creation are worthy95 of consideration and tenderness. Well,—it may be very good and broad philosophy,—all the same, if I caught a rat sitting in my bed, I shouldn’t like it,—nor would I care to share my meals with a lively party of cockroaches96. There are limits to Christian97 feelings. And, as for that beast of a bird outside, why, it’s better outside than in, so I’ll say nothing about it.”
And he devoted98 himself more intently than ever to the preparation of the dinner,—for his master had now an excellent appetite, and ate good things with appreciation99 and relish100, a circumstance which greatly consoled Karl for many other drawbacks in the service he had undertaken. For he was a perfect cook, and proud of his art, and that night he was particularly conscious of the excellence101 of the little tasty dishes he had, to use an art-term, “created,” and he watched his master enjoy their flavour, with a proud, keen sense of his own consummate102 skill.
“When a man relishes103 his food it is all right with him,” he thought.—“Starving for the sake of science may be all very well, but if it kills the scientist what becomes of the science?”
And he grew quite cheerful in the contemplation of the “Herr Doctor’s” improved appetite, and by degrees almost forgot the uncanny bird that was still sitting on the topmost ledge104 of the tower.
Among other studious habits engendered105 by long solitude106 into which Kremlin had fallen, was the somewhat unhygienic one of reading at meals. Most frequently it was a volume of poems with which he beguiled107 the loneliness of his dinner, for he was one of those rare few who accept and believe in what may be called the “Prophecies” of Poesy. These are in very truth often miraculous108, and it can be safely asserted that if the writers of the Bible had not been poets they would never have been prophets. A poet,—if he indeed be a poet, and not a mere manufacturer of elegant verse,—always raves—raves madly, blindly, incoherently of things he does not really understand. Moreover, it is not himself that raves—but a Something within him,—some demoniac or angelic spirit that clamours its wants in wild music, which by throbbing109 measure and degree resolves itself, after some throes of pain on the poet’s part, into a peculiar110 and occasionally vague language. The poet, as man, is no more than man; but that palpitating voice in his mind gives him no rest, tears his thoughts piecemeal111, rends112 his soul, and consumes him with feverish trouble and anxiety not his own, till he has given it some sort of speech, however mystic and strange. If it resolves itself into a statement which appals113 or amazes, he, the poet, cannot help it; if it enunciates114 a prophecy he is equally incapable115 of altering or refuting it. When Shakespeare wrote the three words, “Sermons in stones,” he had no idea that he was briefly116 expounding117 with perfect completeness the then to him unknown science of geology. The poet is not born of flesh alone, but of spirit—a spirit which dominates him whether he will or no, from the very first hour in which his childish eyes look inquiringly on leaves and flowers and stars—a spirit which catches him by the hands, kisses him on the lips, whispers mad nothings in his startled ears, flies restlessly round and about him, brushing his every sense with downy, warm, hurrying wings,—snatches him up altogether at times and bids him sing, write, cry out strange oracles118, weep forth wild lamentations, and all this without ever condescending119 to explain to him the reason why. It is left to the world to discover this “Why,” and the discovery is often not made till ages after the poet’s mortal dust has been transformed to flowers in the grass which little children gather and wear unknowingly. The poet whose collected utterances120 Dr. Kremlin was now reading, as he sipped121 the one glass of light burgundy which concluded his meal, was Byron; the fiery122 singer whose exquisite123 music is pooh-poohed by the insipid124 critics of the immediate125 day, who, jealous of his easily-won and world-wide fame, grudge126 him the laurel, even though it spring from the grave of a hero as well as bard127. The book was open at “Manfred,” and the lines on which old Kremlin’s eyes rested were these:
“How beautiful is all this visible world!
How glorious in its action and itself!
But we who name ourselves its sovereigns, we
To sink or soar, with our mix’d essence make
A conflict of its elements, and breathe
The breath of degradation129 and of pride,
Contending with low wants and lofty will.
Till our mortality predominates,
And men are,—what they name not to themselves,
And trust not to each other.”
“Now that passage is every whit130 as fine as anything in Shakespeare,” thought Kremlin—“and the whole secret of human trouble is in it;—it is not the world that is wrong, but we—we ‘who make a conflict of its elements.’ The question is, if we are really ‘unfit to sink or soar’ is it our fault?—and may we not ask without irreverence131 why we were made so incomplete? Ah, my clever friend El-Râmi Zarânos has set himself a superhuman task on the subject of this ‘Why,’ and I fancy I shall find out the riddle132 of Mars, and many another planet besides, before he ‘proves,’ as he is trying to do, the conscious and individual existence of the soul.”
He turned over the pages of “Manfred” thoughtfully, and then stopped, his gaze riveted133 on the splendid lines in which the unhappy hero of the tragedy flings his last defiance134 to the accusing demons—
Is its own origin of ill and end—
But is absorbed in sufferance or in joy,
Born from the knowledge of its own desert.
I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey—
But was my own destroyer, and will be
My own hereafter.—Back, ye baffled fiends!
The hand of death is on me,—but not yours!”
“And yet people will say that Byron was an immoral140 writer!” murmured Kremlin—“In spite of the tremendous lesson conveyed in those lines! There is something positively141 terrifying in that expression—
‘But was my own destroyer, and will be
My own hereafter.’
Here he broke off, suddenly startled by a snaky blue glare that flashed into the room like the swift sweep of a sword-blade. Springing up from the table he rubbed his dazzled eyes.
“Why—what was that?” he exclaimed.
“Lightning!” replied Karl, just entering at the moment—“and a very nasty specimen143 of it. ... I’d better put all the knives and steel things by.”
And he proceeded to do this, while Kremlin still stood in the centre of the room, his sight yet a little confused by the rapidity and brilliancy of that unexpected storm-flash. A long low ominous muttering of thunder, beginning far off and rolling up nearer and nearer till it boomed like a volley of cannon144 in unison145 with the roar of the sea, followed,—then came silence. No rain fell, and the wind only blew moderately enough to sway the shrubs146 in front of the house lightly to and fro.
“It will be a stormy night,” said Dr. Kremlin then, recovering himself and taking up his Byron—“I am sorry for the sailors! You had better see well to all the fastenings of the doors and windows.”
“Trust me!” replied Karl sententiously—“You shall not be carried out to sea against your will if I can help it—nor have I any desire to make such a voyage myself. I hope, Herr Doctor”—he added with a touch of anxiety—“you are not going to spend this evening in the tower?”
“I certainly am!” answered Kremlin, smiling—“I have work up there, and I cannot afford to be idle on account of a thunderstorm. Why do you look so scared? There is no danger.”
“I didn’t say there was”—and Karl fidgeted uneasily—“but—though I’ve never been inside it, I should think the tower was lonesome, and I should fancy there might be too close a view of the lightning to be quite pleasant.”
Kremlin looked amused, and, walking to the window, pushed back one of the curtains.
“I believe it was a false alarm,” he said, gazing at the sea—“That flash and thunder-peal were the parting notes of a storm that has taken place somewhere else. See!—the clouds are clearing.”
So in truth they were; the evening, though very dark, seemed to give promise of a calm. One or two stars twinkled faintly in a blackish-blue breadth of sky, and, perceiving these shining monitors and problems of his life’s labour, Kremlin wasted no more time in words, but abruptly147 left the room and ascended148 to his solitary149 studio. Karl, listening, heard the closing of the heavy door aloft and the grating of the key as it turned in the lock,—and he also heard that strange perpetual whirring noise above, which, though he had in a manner grown accustomed to it, always remained for him a perplexing mystery. Shaking his head dolefully, and with a somewhat troubled countenance150, he cleared the dining-table, set the room in order, went down to his kitchen, cleaned, rubbed, and polished everything till his surroundings were as bright as it was possible for them to be, and then, pleasantly fatigued151, sat down to indite152 a letter to his mother in the most elaborate German phraseology he could devise. He was rather proud of his “learning,” and he knew his letters home were read by nearly all the people in his native village as well as by his maternal153 parent, so that he was particularly careful in his efforts to impress everybody by the exceeding choiceness of his epistolary “style.” Absorbed in his task, he at first scarcely noticed the gradual rising of the wind, which, having rested for a few hours, now seemed to have awakened154 in redoubled strength and fury. Whistling under the kitchen door it came, with a cold and creepy chill,—it shook the windows angrily, and then, finding the door of the outside pantry open, shut it to with a tremendous bang, like an irate155 person worsted in an argument. Karl paused, pen in hand; and, as he did so, a dismal cry echoed round the house, the sound seeming to fall from a height and then sweep over the earth with the wind, towards the sea.
“It’s that brute of a bird!” said Karl half aloud—“Nice cheerful voice he has, to be sure!”
At that moment the kitchen was illuminated156 from end to end by a wide blue glare of lightning, followed, after a heavy pause, by a short loud clap of thunder. The hovering157 storm had at last gathered together its scattered158 forces, and, concentrating itself blackly above the clamorous159 sea, now broke forth in deadly earnest.
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1
gales
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| 龙猫 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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shipwrecks
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| 海难，船只失事( shipwreck的名词复数 )； 沉船 | |
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despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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attained
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| （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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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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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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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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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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scudded
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| v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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revolve
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| vi.(使)旋转；循环出现 | |
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revolved
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 )；细想 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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42
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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spouts
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| n.管口( spout的名词复数 )；（喷出的）水柱；（容器的）嘴；在困难中v.（指液体）喷出( spout的第三人称单数 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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44
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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45
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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46
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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47
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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48
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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49
devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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50
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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51
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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52
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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53
crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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54
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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55
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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56
cormorant
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| n.鸬鹚，贪婪的人 | |
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57
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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58
floppy
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| adj.松软的，衰弱的 | |
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59
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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60
preening
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| v.（鸟）用嘴整理（羽毛）( preen的现在分词 ) | |
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61
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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62
tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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63
implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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64
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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65
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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66
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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67
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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68
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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69
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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70
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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71
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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72
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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73
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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74
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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75
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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76
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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77
agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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78
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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79
elixir
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| n.长生不老药，万能药 | |
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80
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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81
frond
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| n.棕榈类植物的叶子 | |
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82
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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83
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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84
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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85
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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86
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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87
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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88
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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89
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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90
gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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91
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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92
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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93
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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94
squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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95
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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96
cockroaches
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| n.蟑螂( cockroach的名词复数 ) | |
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97
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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98
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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99
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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100
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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101
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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102
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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103
relishes
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| n.滋味( relish的名词复数 )；乐趣；（大量的）享受；快乐v.欣赏( relish的第三人称单数 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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104
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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105
engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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107
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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108
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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109
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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110
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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111
piecemeal
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| adj.零碎的；n.片，块；adv.逐渐地；v.弄成碎块 | |
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112
rends
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| v.撕碎( rend的第三人称单数 )；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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113
appals
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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114
enunciates
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| n.（清晰地）发音( enunciate的名词复数 )；确切地说明v.（清晰地）发音( enunciate的第三人称单数 )；确切地说明 | |
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115
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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116
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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117
expounding
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的现在分词 ) | |
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118
oracles
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| 神示所( oracle的名词复数 )； 神谕； 圣贤； 哲人 | |
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119
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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120
utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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121
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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123
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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124
insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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125
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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126
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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127
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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128
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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129
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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130
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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131
irreverence
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| n.不尊敬 | |
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132
riddle
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| 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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133
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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134
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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135
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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136
requital
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| n.酬劳；报复 | |
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137
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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138
derives
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| v.得到( derive的第三人称单数 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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139
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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140
immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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141
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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142
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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143
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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144
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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145
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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146
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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147
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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148
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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149
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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150
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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151
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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152
indite
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作 | |
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153
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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154
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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155
irate
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| adj.发怒的，生气 | |
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156
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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157
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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158
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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159
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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