“Inclined to admit it, is he!” and El-Râmi threw aside the paper and broke into a laugh of the sincerest enjoyment9, “Heavens! what fools there are in this world, who call themselves wise men! This little poetaster, full of the conceit10 common to his imitative craft, is ‘inclined to admit’ that there are great possibilities in the study of the invisible! Excellent condescension11! How the methods of life have turned topsy-turvy since the ancient days! Then the study of the Invisible was the first key to the study of the Visible,—the things which are seen being considered only as the reflexes of the things which are unseen—the Unseen being accepted as Cause, the Seen as Effect. Now we all drift the other way,—taking the Visible as Fact,—the Invisible as Fancy!”
Féraz, who was writing at a side-table, looked up at him.
“Surely you are inconsistent?” he said—“You yourself believe in nothing unless it is proved.”
“But then, my dear fellow, I can prove the Invisible and follow the grades of it, and the modes by which it makes itself the Visible,—to a certain extent—but only to a certain extent. Beyond the provable limit I do not go. You, on the contrary, aided by the wings of imagination, outsoar that limit, and profess12 to find angels, star-kingdoms, and God Himself. I cannot go so far as this. But, unlike our blown-out frog of a versifier here, who would fain persuade mankind he is a bull, I am not only ‘inclined’ to admit—I do admit that there are ‘great possibilities’—only I must test them all before I can accept them as facts made clear to my comprehension.”
“Still, you believe in the Invisible?”
“Naturally. I believe in the millions of suns in the Milky13 Way, though they can scarcely be called ‘visible.’ I should be a fool if I did not believe in the Invisible, under the present conditions of the Universe. But I cannot be tricked by ‘shams’ of the Invisible. The Theosophical business is a piece of vulgar imposture14, in which the professors themselves are willing to delude15 their own imaginations, as well as the imaginations of others—they are the most wretched imitators that ever were of the old Eastern sorcerers,—the fellows who taught Moses and Aaron how to frighten their ignorant cattle-like herds16 of followers17. None of the modern ‘mediums,’ as they are called, have the skill over atmospheric18 phenomena19, metals, and light-reflexes that Apollonius of Tyana had, or Alexander the Paphlagonian. Both these scientific sorcerers were born about the same time as Christ, and Apollonius, like Christ, raised a maiden20 from the dead. Miracles were the fashion in that period of time,—and, according to the monotonous21 manner in which history repeats itself, they are coming into favour again in this century. All that we know now has been already known. The ancient Greeks had their ‘penny-in-the-slot’ machine for the purpose of scattering22 perfume on their clothes as they passed along the streets—they had their ‘syphon’ bottles and vases as we have, and they had their automatically opening and closing doors. Compare the miserable23 ‘spiritualistic phenomena’ of the Theosophists with the marvels24 wrought by Hakem, known as Mokanna! Mokanna could cause an orb25 like the moon to rise from a well at a certain hour and illumine the country for miles and miles around. How did he do it? By a knowledge of electric force applied26 to air and water. The ‘bogies’ of a modern séance who talk bad grammar and pinch people’s toes and fingers are very coarse examples of necromancy27, compared with the scientific skill of Mokanna and others of this tribe. However, superstition28 is the same in all ages, and there will always be fools ready to believe in ‘Mahatmas’ or anything else,—and the old ‘incantation of the Mantra’ will, if well done, influence the minds of the dupes of the nineteenth century quite as effectively as it did those of the bygone ages before Christ.”
“What is the incantation of the Mantra?” asked Féraz.
“A ridiculous trick”—replied El-Râmi—“known to every Eastern conjurer and old woman who professes29 to see the future. You take your dupe, and fling a little water over him, fixing upon him your eyes and all the force of your will,—then, you take a certain mixture of chemical substances and perfumes, and set them on fire—the flames and fumes30 produce a dazzling and drowsy31 effect on the senses of your ‘subject,’ who will see whatever you choose him to see, and hear whatever you intend him to hear. But Will is the chief ingredient of the spell,—and if I, for example, choose to influence any one, I can dispense32 with both water and fire—I can do it alone and without any show of preparation.”
“I know you can!” said Féraz meaningly, with a slight smile, and then was silent.
“I wonder what the art of criticism is coming to nowadays!” exclaimed El-Râmi presently, taking up the paper again—“Here is a remark worthy33 of Dogberry’s profundity—‘This is a book that must be read to be understood.’[3] Why, naturally! Who can understand a book without reading it?”
Féraz laughed—then his eyes darkened.
“I saw an infamous34 so-called critique of one of Madame Vassilius’s books the other day”—he said—“I should like to have thrashed the man who wrote it. It was not criticism at all—it was a mere35 piece of scurrilous36 vulgarity.”
“Ah, but that sort of thing pays!” retorted El-Râmi satirically. “The modern journalist attains37 his extremest height of brilliancy when he throws the refuse of his inkpot at the name and fame of a woman more gifted than himself. It’s nineteenth-century chivalry38 you know,—above all ... it’s manly39!”
“Then—if there is any truth in old chronicles—men are not what they were;”—he said.
“No—they are not what they were, my dear boy—because all things have changed. Women were once the real slaves and drudges41 of men,—now, they are very nearly their equals, or can be so if they choose. And men have to get accustomed to this—at present they are in the transition state and don’t like it. Besides, there will always be male tyrants42 and female drudges as long as the world lasts. Men are not what they were,—and, certes, they are not what they might be.”
“They might be gods;”—said Féraz—“but I suppose they prefer to be devils.”
“Precisely!” agreed El-Râmi—“it is easier, and more amusing.”
Féraz resumed his writing in silence. He was thinking of Irene Vassilius, whom he admired;—and also of that wondrous43 Sleeping Beauty enshrined upstairs whose loveliness he did not dare to speak of. He had latterly noticed a great change in his brother,—an indefinable softness seemed to have imperceptibly toned down the habitual44 cynicism of his speech and manner,—his very expression of countenance45 was more gracious and benign,—he looked handsomer,—his black eyes shot forth46 a less fierce fire,—and yet, with all his gentleness and entire lack of impatience47, he was absorbed from morning to night in such close and secret study as made Féraz sometimes fear for its ultimate result on his health.
“Do you really believe in prayer, Féraz?” was the very unexpected question he now asked, with sudden and startling abruptness48; “I mean, do you think any one in the invisible realms hears us when we pray?”
Féraz laid down his pen, and gazed at his brother for a moment without answering. Then he said slowly—
“Well, according to your own theories the air is a vast phonograph,—so it follows naturally that everything is heard and kept. But as to prayer, that depends, I think, altogether on how you pray. I do not believe in it at all times. And I’m afraid my ideas on the subject are quite out of keeping with those generally accepted——”
“Never mind—let me have them, whatever they are”—interrupted El-Râmi with visible eagerness—“I want to know when and how you pray?”
“Well, the fact is I very seldom pray”—returned Féraz—“I offer up the best praise I can in mortal language devise, both night and morning—but I never ask for anything. It would seem so vile49 to ask for more, having already so much. And I am sure God knows best—in which case I have nothing to ask, except one thing.”
“Punishment!” replied Féraz emphatically; “I pray for that—I crave51 for that—I implore52 that I may be punished at once when I have done wrong, that I may immediately recognise my error. I would rather be punished here, than hereafter.”
El-Râmi paled a little, and his lips trembled.
“Strange boy!” he murmured—“All the churches are praying God to take away the punishments incurred53 for sin,—you, on the contrary, ask for it as if it were a blessing54.”
“So it is a blessing”—declared Féraz—“It must be a blessing—and it is absurd of the churches to pray against a Law. For it is a Law. Nature punishes us, when we physically55 rebel against the rules of health, by physical suffering and discomfort,—God punishes us in our mental rebellions by mental wretchedness. This is as it should be. I believe we get everything in this world that we deserve—no more and no less.”
“And do you never pray”—continued El-Râmi slowly, “for the accomplished56 perfection of some cherished aim,—the winning of some special joy——”
“Not I”—said Féraz—“because I know that if it be good for me I shall have it,—if bad, it will be withheld57; all my prayers could not alter the matter.”
El-Râmi sat silent for a few minutes,—then, rising, he took two or three turns up and down the room, and gradually a smile, half scornful, half sweet, illumined his dark features.
“Then, O young and serene58 philosopher, I will not pray!” he said, his eyes flashing a lustrous59 defiance—“I have a special aim in view—I mean to grasp a joy!—and whether it be good or bad for me, I will attempt it unassisted.”
“If it be good you will succeed;”—said Féraz with a glance expressive60 of some fear as well as wonderment. “If it be bad, you will not. God arranges these things for us.”
“God—God—always God!” cried El-Râmi with some impatience—“No God shall interfere61 with me!” At that moment there came a hesitating knock at the street door. Féraz went to open it, and admitted a pale grief-stricken man whose eyes were red and heavy with tears and whose voice utterly62 failed him to reply when El-Râmi exclaimed in astonishment63:
“Karl! ... Karl! You here? Why, what has happened?”
Poor Karl made a heroic struggle to speak,—but his emotion was too strong for him—he remained silent, and two great drops rolled down his cheeks in spite of all his efforts to restrain them.
“You are ill;”—said Féraz kindly64, pushing him by gentle force into a chair and fetching him a glass of wine—“Here, drink this—it will restore you.”
Karl put the glass aside tremblingly, and tried to smile his gratitude,—and presently gaining a little control over himself he turned his piteous glances towards El-Râmi whose fine features had become suddenly grave and fixed65 in thought.
El-Râmi raised his hand gently, with a solemn and compassionate67 gesture.
“Peace, my good fellow!—no, I have not heard,—but I can guess;—Kremlin, ... your master ... is dead.”
And he was silent for many minutes. Fresh tears trickled68 from Karl’s eyes, and he made a pretence69 of tasting the wine that Féraz pressed upon him—Féraz, who looked as statuesque and serene as a young Apollo.
“You must console yourself;”—he said cheerfully to Karl, “Poor Dr. Kremlin had many troubles and few joys—now he has gone where he has no trouble and all joy.”
“Ah!” sighed Karl dolefully—“I wish I could believe that, sir,—I wish I could believe it! But it was the judgment71 of God upon him—it was indeed!—that is what my poor mother would say,—the judgment of God!”
El-Râmi moved from his meditative72 attitude with a faint sense of irritation73. The words he had so lately uttered—“No God shall interfere with me”—re-echoed in his mind. And now here was this man,—this servant, weeping and trembling and talking of the “judgment of God” as if it were really something divinely directed and inexorable.
“What do you mean?” he asked, endeavouring to suppress the impatience in his voice—“Of course, I know he must have had some violent end, or else he could not”—and he repeated the words impressively—“could not have died,—but was there anything more than usually strange in the manner of his death?”
Karl threw up his hands.
“More than usually strange! Ach, Gott!” and, with many interpolations of despair and expressions of horror, he related in broken accents the whole of the appalling74 circumstances attending his master’s end. In spite of himself a faint shudder75 ran through El-Râmi’s warm blood as he heard—he could almost see before him the horrible spectacle of the old man’s mangled76 form lying crushed under the ponderous77 Disc his daring skill had designed; and under his breath he murmured, “Oh Lilith, oh my too happy Lilith! and yet you tell me there is no death!” Féraz, however, the young and sensitive Féraz, listened to the sad recital78 with quiet interest, unhorrified, apparently79 unmoved,—his eyes were bright, his expression placid80.
“He could not have suffered;”—he observed at last, when Karl had finished speaking—“The flash of lightning must have severed81 body and spirit instantly and without pain. I think it was a good end.”
Karl looked at the beautiful smiling youth in vague horror. What!—to be flattened82 out like a board beneath a ponderous weight of fallen stone—to be so disfigured as to be unrecognisable—to be only a mangled mass of flesh difficult of decent burial,—and call that “a good end”! Karl shuddered83 and groaned;—he was not versed84 in the strange philosophies of young Féraz—he had never been out of his body on an ethereal journey to the star-kingdoms.
“It was the judgment of God,”—he repeated dully—“Neither more nor less. My poor master studied too hard, and tried to find out too much, and I think he made God angry——”
“My good fellow,” interrupted El-Râmi rather irritably—“do not talk of what you do not understand. You have been faithful, hard-working and all the rest of it,—but as for your master trying to find out too much, or God getting angry with him, that is all nonsense. We were placed on this earth to find out as much as we can, about it and about ourselves, and do the best that is possible with our learning,—and the bare idea of a great God condescending85 to be ‘angry’ with one out of millions upon millions of units is absurd——”
“But even if an unit rebels against the Law the Law crushes him”—interrupted Féraz softly—“A gnat86 flies into flame—the flame consumes it—the Law is fulfilled,—and the Law is God’s Will.”
El-Râmi bit his lip vexedly.
“Well, be that as it may, one must needs find out what the Law is first, before it can either be accepted or opposed,” he said.
Féraz made no answer. He was thinking of the simplicity87 of certain Laws of Spirit and Matter which were accepted and agreed to by the community of men of whom the monk88 from Cyprus was the chief master.
Karl meanwhile stared bewilderedly from Féraz to El-Râmi and from El-Râmi back to Féraz again. Their remarks were totally beyond his comprehension; he never could understand, and never wanted to understand, these subtle philosophies.
“I came to ask you, sir”—he said after a pause—“whether you would not, now you know all, manage to take away that devilish thing that killed my master? I’m afraid to touch it myself, and no one else will—and there it lies up in the ruined tower shining away like a big lamp, and sticking like a burr to the iron rod I lifted it with, If it’s any good to you, I’m sure you’d better have it—and by the bye, I found this, sir, in my master’s room addressed to you.”
He held out a sealed envelope, which El-Râmi opened. It contained a folded paper, on which were scratched these lines—
“To El-Râmi Zarânos.
“Good friend, in the event of my death, I beg you to accept all my possessions such as they are, and do me the one favour I ask, which is this—Destroy the Disc, and let my problem die with me.”
This paper, duly signed, bore the date of two years previously89. El-Râmi read it, and handed it to Karl, who read it also. They were silent for a few minutes; then El-Râmi crossed the room, and, unlocking a small cupboard in the wall, took out a sealed flask90 full of what looked like red wine.
“See here, Karl”—he said;—“There is no devil in the great stone you are so afraid of. It is as perishable91 as anything else in this best of all possible worlds. It is nothing but a peculiar92 and rare growth of crystal, which, though found in the lowest depths of the earth, has the quality of absorbing light and emitting it. It clings to the iron rod in the way you speak of because it is a magnet,—and iron not only attracts but fastens it. It is impossible for me just now to go to Ilfracombe—besides there is really no necessity for my presence there. I can fully70 trust you to bring me the papers and few possessions of my poor old friend,—and for the rest, you can destroy the stone yourself—the Disc, as your master called it. All you have to do is simply to pour this liquid on it,—it will pulverise—that is, it will crumble93 into dust while you watch it, and in ten minutes will be indistinguishable from the fallen mortar94 of the shattered tower. Do you understand?”
Karl’s mouth opened a little in wonderment, and he nodded feebly,—he found it quite easy and natural to be afraid of the flask containing a mixture of such potent95 quality, and he took it from El-Râmi’s hand very gingerly and reluctantly. A slight smile crossed El-Râmi’s features as he said—
“No, Karl! there is no danger—no fear of pulverisation for you. You can put the phial safely in your pocket,—and though its contents would pulverise a mountain if used in sufficient quantities,—the liquid has no effect on flesh and blood.”
“Pulverise a mountain!” repeated Karl nervously—“Do you mean that it could turn a mountain into a dust-heap?”
“Or a city—or a fortress—or a rock-bound coast—or anything in the shape of stone that you please”—replied El-Râmi carelessly—“but it will not harm human beings.”
“Will it not explode, sir?” and Karl still looked at the flask in doubt.
“Oh no—it will do its work with extraordinary silence and no less extraordinary rapidity. Do not be afraid!”
Slowly and with evident uneasiness Karl put the terrifying composition into his pocket, deeply impressed by the idea that he had about him stuff, which, if used in sufficient quantity, could “pulverise a mountain.” It was awful! worse than dynamite96, he considered, his thoughts flying off wantonly to the woes97 of Irishmen and Russians. El-Râmi seemed not to notice his embarrassment98 and went on talking quietly, asking various questions concerning Kremlin’s funeral, and giving advice as to the final arrangements which were necessary, till presently he inquired of Karl what he proposed doing with himself in the future.
“Oh I shall look out for another situation,”—he said—“I shall not go back to Germany. I like to think of the ‘Fatherland,’ and I can sing the ‘Wacht am Rhein’ with as much lung as anybody, but I wouldn’t care to live there. I think I shall try for a place where there’s a lady to serve; you know, sir, gentlemen’s ways are apt to be monotonous. Whether they are clever or foolish they always stick to it, whatever it is. A gentleman that races is always racing99, and always talking and thinking about racing,—a gentleman that drinks is always on the drink,—a gentleman that coaches is always coaching, and so on; now a lady does vary! One day she’s all for flowers, another for pictures, another for china,—sometimes she’s mad about music, sometimes about dresses,—or else she takes a fit for study, and gets heaps of books from the libraries. Now for a man-servant all that is very agreeable and lively.”
Féraz laughed at this novel view of domestic service, and Karl, growing a little more cheerful, went on with his explanation—
“You see, supposing I get into a lady’s service, I shall have so much more to distract me. One afternoon I shall be waiting outside a picture-gallery with her shawls and wraps; another day I shall be running backwards100 and forwards to a library,—and then there’s always the pleasure of never quite knowing what she will do next. And it’s excitement I want just now—it really is!”
The corners of his good-humoured mouth drooped101 again despondently102, and his thoughts reverted103 with unpleasant suddenness to the “pulverising” liquid in his pocket. What a terrible thing it was to get acquainted with scientists!
El-Râmi listened to his observations patiently.
“Well, Karl,” he said at last—“I think I can promise you a situation such as you would like. There is a very famous and lovely lady in London, known to the reading-world as Irene Vassilius—she writes original books; is sweetly capricious, yet nobly kind-hearted. I will write to her about you, and I have no doubt she will give you a trial.”
“Thank you, sir!” he said fervently—“You’ve no idea what a deal of good it will do me to take in the tea to a sweet-looking lady—a properly-served tea, you know, all silver and good china. It will be a sort of tonic105 to me,—it will indeed, after that terrible place at Ilfracombe. You can tell her I’m a very handy man,—I can do almost anything, from cooking a chop, up to stretching my legs all day in a porter’s chair in the hall and reading the latest ‘special.’ Anything she wishes, whether for show or economy, she couldn’t have a better hand at it than me;—will you tell her so, sir?”
“Certainly!” replied El-Râmi with a smile. “I’ll tell her you are a domestic Von Moltke, and that under your management her household will be as well ordered as the German army under the great Field-Marshal.”
After a little more desultory106 conversation, Karl took his departure, and returned by the afternoon train to Ilfracombe. He was living with one of his fisher-friends, and as it was late when he arrived he made no attempt to go to the deserted107 house of his deceased master that night. But early the next morning he hurried there before breakfast, and ascended108 to the shattered tower,—that awful scene of desolation from whence poor Kremlin’s mangled remains109 had been taken, and where only a dark stain of blood on the floor silently testified of the horror that had there been enacted110. The Disc, lying prone111, glittered as he approached it, with, as he thought, a fiendish and supernatural light—the early sunlight fell upon its surface, and a thousand prismatic tints112 and sparkles dazzled his eyes as he drew near and gazed dubiously113 at it where it still clung to the iron pendulum114. What could his master have used such a strange object for?—what did it mean? And that solemn humming noise which he had used to hear when the nights were still,—had that glistening115 thing been the cause?—had it any sound? ... Struck by this idea, and filled with a sudden courage, he seized a piece of thick wire, part of the many tangled116 coils that lay among the ruins of roof and wall, and with it gave the Disc a smart blow on its edge ... hush117! ... hush! ... The wire dropped from his hand, and he stood, almost paralysed with fear. A deep, solemn, booming sound, like a great cathedral bell, rang through the air,—grand, and pure and musical, and ... unearthly!—as might be the clarion118 stroke of a clock beating out, not the short pulsations of Time, but the vast throbs119 of Eternity120. Round and round, in eddying121 echoes swept that sweet, sonorous122 note,—till—growing gradually fainter and fainter, it died entirely123 away from human hearing, and seemed to pass out and upwards124 into the gathering125 sun-rays that poured brightly from the east, there to take its place, perchance, in that immense diapason of vibrating tone-music that fills the star-strewn space for ever and ever. It was the last sound struck from the great Star-Dial:—for Karl, terrified at the solemn din1, wasted no more time in speculative126 hesitation127, but, taking the flask El-Râmi had given him, he opened it tremblingly and poured all its contents on the surface of the crystal. The red liquid ran over the stone like blood, crumbling128 it as it ran and extinguishing its brilliancy,—eating its substance away as rapidly as vitriol eats away the human skin,—blistering it and withering129 it visibly before Karl’s astonished eyes,—till, as El-Râmi had said, it was hardly distinguishable from the dust and mortar around it. One piece lasted just a little longer than the rest—it curled and writhed130 like a living thing under the absolutely noiseless and terribly destructive influence of that blood-like liquid that seemed to sink into it as water sinks into a sponge,—Karl watched it, fascinated—till all at once it broke into a sparkle like flame, gleamed, smouldered, leaped high ... and—disappeared. The wondrous Dial, with its “perpetual motion” and its measured rhythm, was as if it had never been,—it had vanished as utterly as a destroyed Planet,—and the mighty131 Problem reflected on its surface remained ... and will most likely still remain ... a mystery unsolved.
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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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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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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enunciate
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| v.发音；（清楚地）表达 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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imposture
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| n.冒名顶替，欺骗 | |
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delude
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| vt.欺骗；哄骗 | |
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herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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atmospheric
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phenomena
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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orb
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| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
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applied
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necromancy
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| n.巫术；通灵术 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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professes
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| 声称( profess的第三人称单数 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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30
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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31
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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32
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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33
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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34
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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35
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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36
scurrilous
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| adj.下流的，恶意诽谤的 | |
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37
attains
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的第三人称单数 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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38
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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39
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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40
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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41
drudges
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| n.做苦工的人，劳碌的人( drudge的名词复数 ) | |
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42
tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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43
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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44
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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45
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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46
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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47
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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48
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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49
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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50
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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51
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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52
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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53
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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54
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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55
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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56
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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57
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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58
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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59
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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60
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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61
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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62
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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63
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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64
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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66
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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68
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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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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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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71
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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72
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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73
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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74
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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76
mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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77
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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78
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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79
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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80
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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81
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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82
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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83
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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84
versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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85
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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86
gnat
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| v.对小事斤斤计较，琐事 | |
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87
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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88
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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89
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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90
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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91
perishable
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| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
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92
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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93
crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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94
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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95
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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96
dynamite
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| n./vt.(用)炸药(爆破) | |
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97
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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98
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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99
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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100
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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101
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
despondently
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| adv.沮丧地，意志消沉地 | |
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103
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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104
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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105
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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106
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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107
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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108
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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110
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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112
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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113
dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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114
pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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115
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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116
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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117
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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118
clarion
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| n.尖音小号声；尖音小号 | |
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119
throbs
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| 体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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120
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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121
eddying
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| 涡流，涡流的形成 | |
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122
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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123
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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124
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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125
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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126
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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127
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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128
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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129
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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130
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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