A few random38 thoughts such as these occurred to El-Râmi now and then as he lived his life from day to day in perpetual expectation of the “sign” promised by Lilith, which as yet was not forthcoming. He believed she would keep her word, and that the “sign” whatever it was would be unmistakable; and,—as before stated—this was the nearest approach to actual faith he had ever known. His was a nature which was originally disposed to faith, but which had persistently39 fought with its own inclination41 till that inclination had been conquered. He had been able to prove as purely42 natural much that had seemed supernatural, and he now viewed everything from two points—Possibility and Impossibility. His various confusions and perplexities, however, generally arose from the frequent discovery he made that what he had once thought the Impossible suddenly became, through some small chance clue, the Possible. So many times had this occurred that he often caught himself wondering whether anything in very truth could be strictly43 declared as “impossible.” And yet, ... with the body of Lilith under his observation for six years, and an absolute ignorance as to how her intelligence had developed, or where she obtained the power to discourse45 with him as she did, he always had the lurking46 dread47 that her utterances48 might be the result of his own brain unconsciously working upon hers, and that there was no “soul” or “spirit” in the matter. This, too, in spite of the fact that she had actually given him a concise49 description of certain planets, their laws, their government, and their inhabitants, concerning which he could know nothing,—and that she spoke50 with a sure conviction of the existence of a personal God, an idea that was entirely51 unacceptable to his nature. He was at a loss to explain her “separated consciousness” in any scientific way, and, afraid of himself lest he should believe too easily, he encouraged the presence of every doubt in his mind, rather than give entrance to more than the palest glimmer52 of faith.
And so time went on, and May passed into June, and June deepened into its meridian53 glow of bloom and sunlight, and he remained shut up within the four walls of his house, seeing no one, and displaying a total indifference to the fact that the “season” with all its bitter froth and frivolity54 was seething55 on in London in its usual monotonous manner. Unlike pretenders to “spiritualistic” powers, he had no inclination for the society of the rich and great,—“titled” people had no attraction for him save in so far as they were cultured, witty56, or amiable57,—“position” in the world was a very miserable58 trifle in his opinion, and, though many a gorgeous flunkied carriage at this time found its way into the unfashionable square where he had his domicile, no visitors were admitted to see him,—and “too busy to receive any one” was the formula with which young Féraz dismissed any would-be intruder. Yet Féraz himself wondered all the while how it was that, as a matter of fact, El-Râmi seemed to be just now less absorbed in actual study than he had ever been in his whole life. He read no books save the old Arabic vellum-bound volume which held the explanatory key to so many curious phenomena59 palmed off as “spiritual miracles” by the theosophists, and he wrote a good deal,—but he answered no letters, accepted no invitations, manifested no wish to leave the house even for an hour’s stroll, and seemed mentally engrossed60 by some great secret subject of meditation62. He was uniformly kind to Féraz, exacting63 no duties from him save those prompted by interest and affection,—he was marvellously gentle too with Zaroba, who, agitated64, restless and perplexed65 as to his ultimate intentions with respect to the beautiful Lilith, was vaguely uneasy and melancholy66, though she deemed it wisest to perform all his commands with exactitude, and, for the present, to hold her peace. She had expected something—though she knew not what—from his last interview with her beautiful charge—but all was unchanged,—Lilith slept on, and the cherished wish of Zaroba’s heart, that she should wake, seemed as far off realisation as ever. Day after day passed, and El-Râmi lived like a hermit67 amidst the roar and traffic of mighty London,—watching Lilith for long and anxious hours, but never venturing to call her down to him from wherever she might be,—waiting, waiting for her summons, and content for once to sink himself in the thought of her identity. All his ambitions were now centred on the one great object, ... to see the Soul, as it is, if it is indeed existent, conscious and individual. For, as he argued, what is the use of a “Soul” whose capacities we are not permitted to understand?—and if it be no more to us than the intelligent faculty68 of brain? The chief proof of a possible something behind Man’s inner consciousness was, he considered, the quality of Discontent, and, primarily, because Discontent is so universal. No one is contented69 in all the world from end to end. From the powerful Emperor on his throne to the whining70 beggar in the street, all chafe71 under the goading72 prick73 of the great Necessity,—a something better,—a something lasting74. Why should this resonant75 key-note of Discontent be perpetually resounding76 through space, if this life is all? No amount of philosophy or argument can argue away Discontent—it is a god-like disquietude ever fermenting77 changes among us, ever propounding78 new suggestions for happiness, ever restless, never satisfied. And El-Râmi would ask himself—Is Discontent the voice of the Soul?—not only the Universal Soul of things, but the Soul of each individual? Then, if individual, why should not the individual be made manifest, if manifestation79 be possible? And if not possible, why should we be called upon to believe in what cannot be manifested?
Thus he argued, not altogether unwisely; he had studied profoundly all the divers80 conflicting theories of religion, and would at one time have become an obstinately81 confirmed Positivist, had it not been for the fact that the further his researches led him the more he became aware that there was nothing positive,—that is to say, nothing so apparently83 fixed84 and unalterable that it might not, under different conditions, prove capable of change. Perhaps there is no better test example of this truth than the ordinary substance known as iron. We use in common parlance85 unthinkingly the phrase “as hard as iron”—while to the smith and engineer, who mould and twist it in every form, it proves itself soft and malleable86 as wax. Again, to the surface observer, it might and does seem an incombustible metal,—the chemist knows it will burn with the utmost fury. How then form a universal decision as to its various capabilities87 when it has so many variations of use all in such contrary directions? The same example, modified or enlarged, will be found to apply to all things, wherefore the word “Positivism” seems out of place in merely mortal language. God may be “positive,” but we and our surroundings have no such absolute quality.
During this period of El-Râmi’s self-elected seclusion88 and meditation his young brother Féraz was very happy. He was in the midst of writing a poem which he fondly fancied might perhaps—only perhaps—find a publisher to take it and launch it on its own merits,—it is the privilege of youth to be over-sanguine. Then, too, his brain was filled with new musical ideas,—and many an evening’s hour he beguiled89 away by delicious improvisations on the piano, or exquisite90 songs to the mandoline. El-Râmi, when he was not upstairs keeping anxious vigil by the tranced Lilith’s side, would sit in his chair, leaning back with half-closed eyes, listening to the entrancing melodies like another Saul to a new David, soothed91 by the sweetness of the sounds he heard, yet conscious that he took too deep and ardent92 a pleasure in hearing, when the songs Féraz chose were of love. One night Féraz elected to sing the wild and beautiful “Canticle of Love” written by the late Lord Lytton, when as “Owen Meredith” he promised to be one of the greatest poets of our century, and who would have fulfilled more than that promise if diplomacy93 had not claimed his brilliant intellectual gifts for the service of his country,—a country which yet deplores94 his untimely loss. But no fatality95 had as yet threatened that gallant96 and noble life in the days when Féraz smote97 the chords of his mandoline and sang:
“I once heard an angel by night in the sky
The pole-star, the seven little planets and I
To the song that he sang listened mute,
For the song that he sang was so strange and so sweet,
That the seraphs of heaven sat hush’d at his feet
And folded their heads in their wings.
And the song that he sang to the seraphs up there
Is called ‘Love’! But the words ... I had heard them elsewhere.
“For when I was last in the nethermost99 Hell,
On a rock ’mid the sulphurous surges I heard
A pale spirit sing to a wild hollow shell;
And his song was the same, every word,
And so sad was his singing, all Hell to the sound
With their black wings weighed down by the strain;
And the song that was sung to the Lost Ones down there
Is called ‘Love’! But the spirit that sang was Despair!”
The strings of the mandoline quivered mournfully in tune103 with the passionate beauty of the verse, and from El-Râmi’s lips there came involuntarily a deep and bitter sigh.
Féraz ceased playing and looked at him.
“What is it?” he asked anxiously.
“Nothing!” replied his brother in a tranquil104 voice—“What should there be? Only the poem is very beautiful, and out of the common,—though, to me, terribly suggestive of—a mistake somewhere in creation. Love to the Saved—Love to the Lost!—naturally it would have different aspects,—but it is an anomaly—Love, to be true to its name, should have no ‘lost’ ones in its chronicle.”
Féraz was silent.
“Do you believe”—continued El-Râmi—“that there is a ‘nethermost Hell’?—a place or a state of mind resembling that ‘rock ’mid the sulphurous surges’?”
“I should imagine,” replied Féraz with some diffidence, “that there must be a condition in which we are bound to look back and see where we were wrong,—a condition, too, in which we have time to be sorry——”
“Unfair and unreasonable105!” exclaimed his brother hotly. “For, suppose we did not know we were wrong? We are left absolutely without guidance in this world to do as we like.”
“I do not think you can quite say that”—remonstrated Féraz gently—“We do know when we are wrong—generally; some instinct tells us so—and, while we have the book of Nature, we are not left without guidance. As for looking back and seeing our former mistakes, I think that is unquestionable,—for as I grow older I begin to see where I failed in my former life, and how I deserved to lose my star-kingdom.”
El-Râmi looked impatient.
“You are a dreamer”—he said decisively—“and your star-kingdom is a dream also. You cannot tell me truthfully that you remember anything of a former existence?”
“My dear boy, anybody but myself hearing you would say you were mad—hopelessly mad!”
“They would be at perfect liberty to say so”—and Féraz smiled a little—“Every one is free to have his own opinion—I have mine. My star exists; and I once existed in it—so did you.”
“Oh no! You think you have forgotten”—said Féraz mildly—“But the truth is, your very knowledge of science and other things is only—memory.”
El-Râmi moved in his chair impatiently.
“Let us not argue;”—he said—“We shall never agree. Sing to me again!”
Féraz thought a moment, and then laid aside his mandoline and went to the piano, where he played a rushing rapid accompaniment like the sound of the wind among trees, and sang the following:
Clouds of the tempest, flee as I am flying,
Gods of the cloudland, Christus and Apollo,
Follow, O follow!
Over the black wastes, past the gleaming fountains,
Lo, I am riding!
“Clangour and anger of elements are round me,
Torture has clasped me, cruelty has crown’d me,
Sorrow awaits me, Death is waiting with her,
“Gods of the storm-cloud, drifting darkly yonder,
Gods of the forest glimmer out upon me,
“Gods, let them follow!—gods, for I defy them!
If they would find me, touch me, whisper to me,
Let them pursue me!”
He was interrupted in the song by a smothered115 cry from El-Râmi, and looking round, startled, he saw his brother standing116 up and staring at him with something of mingled117 fear and horror. He came to an abrupt118 stop, his hands resting on the piano-keys.
“Go on, go on!” cried El-Râmi irritably119. “What wild chant of the gods and men have you there? Is it your own?”
“Mine!” echoed Féraz—“No indeed! Why? Do you not like it?”
“Of course, of course I like it;”—said El-Râmi, sitting down again, angry with himself for his own emotion—“Is there more of it?”
“Yes, but I need not finish it,”—and Féraz made as though he would rise from the piano.
El-Râmi suddenly began to laugh.
“Go on, I tell you, Féraz”—he said carelessly—“There is a tempest of agitation120 in the words and in your music that leaves one hurried and breathless, but the sensation is not unpleasant,—especially when one is prepared, ... go on!—I want to hear the end of this ... this—defiance.”
Féraz looked at him to see if he were in earnest, and, perceiving he had settled down to give his whole attention to the rest of the ballad121, he resumed his playing, and again the rush of the music filled the room.
Groweth the pathway, yet I am not weary—
Gods, I defy them! gods, I can unmake them,
“White steed of wonder with thy feet of thunder,
Find out their temples, tread their high-priests under—
Leave them behind thee—if their gods speed after,
Mock them with laughter.
Be his name Vishnu, Christus or Apollo—
Let the god follow!
“Clangour and anger of elements are round me,
Torture has clasped me, cruelty has crown’d me,
Sorrow awaits me, Death is waiting with her,
Fast speed I thither!”
The music ceased abruptly126 with a quick clash as of jangling bells,—and Féraz rose from the piano.
El-Râmi was sitting quite still.
“A mad outburst!” he remarked presently, seeing that his young brother waited for him to speak—“Do you believe it?”
“Believe what?” asked Féraz, a little surprised.
“This——” and El-Râmi quoted slowly—
“‘Shall a god grieve me? shall a phantom win me?
Nay!—by the wild wind around and o’er and in me—
Be his name Vishnu, Christus or Apollo—
Let the god follow!’
“Do you think”—he continued, “that in the matter of life’s leadership the ‘god’ should follow, or we the god?”
“What an odd question!” he said—“The song is only a song,—part of a long epic129 poem. And we do not receive a mere23 poem as a gospel. And, if you speak of life’s leadership, it is devoutly130 to be hoped that God not only leads but rules us all.”
“Why should you hope it?” asked El-Râmi gloomily—“Myself, I fear it!”
Féraz came to his side and rested one hand affectionately on his arm.
“You are worried and out of sorts, my brother,”—he said gently—“Why do you not seek some change from so much indoor life? You do not even get the advantages I have of going to and fro on the household business. I breathe the fresh air every day,—surely it is necessary for you also?”
“My dear boy, I am perfectly131 well”—and El-Râmi regarded him steadily—“Why should you doubt it? I am only—a little tired. Poor human nature cannot always escape fatigue132.”
Féraz said no more,—but there was a certain strangeness in his brother’s manner that filled him with an indefinable uneasiness. In his own quiet fashion he strove to distract El-Râmi’s mind from the persistent40 fixity of whatever unknown purpose seemed to so mysteriously engross61 him,—and whenever they were together at meals or at other hours of the day he talked in as light and desultory133 a way as possible on all sorts of different topics in the hope of awakening134 his brother’s interest more keenly in external affairs. He read much and thought more, and was a really brilliant conversationalist when he chose, in spite of his dreamy fancies—but he was obliged to admit to himself that his affectionate endeavours met with very slight success. True, El-Râmi appeared to give his attention to all that was said, but it was only an appearance,—and Féraz saw plainly enough that he was not really moved to any sort of feeling respecting the ways and doings of the outer world. And when, one morning, Féraz read aloud the account of the marriage of Sir Frederick Vaughan, Bart., with Idina, only daughter of Jabez Chester of New York, he only smiled indifferently and said nothing.
“We were invited to that wedding;”—commented Féraz.
“Why of course we were”—went on Féraz cheerfully—“And at your bidding I opened and read the letter Sir Frederick wrote you, which said that as you had prophesied137 the marriage he would take it very kindly138 if you would attend in person the formal fulfilment of your prophecy. And all you did in reply was to send a curt139 refusal on plea of other engagements. Do you think that was quite amiable on your part?”
“Fortunately for me I am not called upon to be amiable;”—said El-Râmi, beginning to pace slowly up and down the room—“I want no favours from society, so I need not smile to order. That is one of the chief privileges of complete independence. Fancy having to grin and lie and skulk140 and propitiate141 people all one’s days!—I could not endure it,—but most men can—and do!”
“Besides”—he added after a pause—“I cannot look on with patience at the marriage of fools. Vaughan is a fool, and his baronetage will scarcely pass for wisdom,—the little Chester girl is also a fool,—and I can see exactly what they will become in the course of a few years.”
“Describe them, in futuro!” laughed Féraz.
“Well—the man will be ‘turfy’; the woman, a blind slave to her dressmaker. That is all. There can be nothing more. They will never do any good or any harm—they are simply—nonentities. These are the sort of folk that make me doubt the immortal soul,—for Vaughan is less ‘spiritual’ than a well-bred dog, and little Chester less mentally gifted than a well-instructed mouse.”
“Severe!”—commented Féraz, smiling—“But, man or woman,—mouse or dog, I suppose they are quite happy just now?”
“Happy?” echoed El-Râmi satirically—“Well—I dare say they are,—with the only sort of happiness their intelligences can grasp. She is happy because she is now ‘my lady’ and because she was able to wear a wedding-gown of marvellous make and cost, to trail and rustle142 and sweep after her little person up to God’s altar with, as though she sought to astonish the Almighty143, before whom she took her vows144, with the exuberance145 of her millinery. He is happy because his debts are paid out of old Jabez Chester’s millions. There the ‘happiness’ ends. A couple of months is sufficient to rub the bloom off such wedlock146.”
“It was easy enough”—replied his brother carelessly—“Given two uninstructed, unthinking bipeds of opposite sexes—the male with debts, the female with dollars, and an urbanely148 obstinate82 schemer to pull them together like Lord Melthorpe, and the thing is done. Half the marriages in London are made up like that,—and of the after-lives of those so wedded149, ‘there needs no ghost from the grave’ to tell us,—the divorce courts give every information.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Féraz quickly—“That reminds me,—do you know I saw something in the evening paper last night that might have interested you?”
“Really! You surprise me!” and El-Râmi laughed—“That is strange indeed, for papers of all sorts, whether morning or evening, are to me the dullest and worst-written literature in the world.”
“Oh, for literature one does not go to them”—answered Féraz. “But this was a paragraph about a man who came here not very long ago to see you—a clergyman. He is up as a co-respondent in some very scandalous divorce case. I did not read it all—I only saw that his Bishop150 had caused him to be ‘unfrocked,’ whatever that means—I suppose he is expelled from the ministry151?”
“Yes. ‘Unfrocked’ means literally152 a stripping-off of clerical dignity,” said El-Râmi. “But, if it is the man who came here, he was always naked in that respect. Francis Anstruther was his name?”
“Exactly—that is the man. He is disgraced for life, and seems to be one of the most consummate153 scoundrels that ever lived. He has deserted154 his wife and eight children...”
“Spare me and yourself the details!” and El-Râmi gave an expressively155 contemptuous gesture—“I know all about him and told him what I knew when he came here. But he’ll do very well yet—he’ll get on capitally in spite of his disgrace.”
“How is that possible?” exclaimed Féraz.
“Easily! He can ‘boom’ himself as a new ‘General’ Booth, or he can become a ‘Colonel’ under Booth’s orders—as long as people support Booth with money. Or he can go to America or Australia and start a new creed—he’s sure to fall on his feet and make his fortune—pious hypocrites always do. One would almost fancy there must be a special Deity156 to protect the professors of Humbug157. It is only the sincerely honest folk who get wronged in this admirably-ordered world!”
He spoke with bitterness; and Féraz glanced at him anxiously.
“I do not quite agree with you”—he said; “Surely honest folk always have their reward?—though perhaps superficial observers may not be able to perceive where it comes in. I believe in ‘walking uprightly’ as the Bible says—it seems to me easier to keep along a straight open road than to take dark by-ways and dubious158 short cuts.”
“What do you mean by your straight open road?” demanded El-Râmi, looking at him.
“Nature,”—replied Féraz promptly—“Nature leads us up to God.”
El-Râmi broke into a harsh laugh.
“O credulous159 beautiful lad!” he exclaimed; “You know not what you say! Nature! Consider her methods of work—her dark and cunning and cruel methods! Every living thing preys160 on some other living things;—creatures wonderful, innocent, simple or complex, live apparently but to devour161 and be devoured;—every inch of ground we step upon is the dust of something dead. In the horrible depths of the earth, Nature,—this generous kindly Nature!—hides her dread volcanic162 fires,—her streams of lava163, her boiling founts of sulphur and molten lead, which at any unexpected moment may destroy whole continents crowded with unsuspecting humanity. This is NATURE,—nothing but Nature! She hides her treasures of gold, of silver, of diamonds and rubies164, in the deepest and most dangerous recesses165, where human beings are lost in toiling166 for them,—buried in darkness and slain167 by thousands in the difficult search;—diving for pearls, the unwary explorer is met by the remorseless monsters of the deep,—in fact, in all his efforts towards discovery and progress, Man, the most naturally defenceless creature upon earth, is met by death or blank discouragement. Suppose he were to trust to Nature alone, what would Nature do for him? He is sent into the world naked and helpless;—and all the resources of his body and brain have to be educated and brought into active requisition to enable him to live at all,—lions’ whelps, bears’ cubs168 have a better ‘natural’ chance than he;—and then, when he has learned how to make the best of his surroundings, he is turned out of the world again, naked and helpless as he came in, with all his knowledge of no more use to him than if he had never attained169 it. This is NATURE, if Nature be thus reckless and unreasonable as the ‘reflex of God’—how reckless and unreasonable must be God Himself!”
“Ay, if God were so,” he said—“the veriest pigmy among men might boast of nobler qualities than He! But God is not so, El-Râmi! Of course you can argue any and every way, and I cannot confute your reasoning. Because you reason with the merely mortal intelligence; to answer you rightly I should have to reply as a Spirit,—I should need to be out of the body before I could tell you where you are wrong.”
“Well!” said his brother curiously—“Then why do you not do so? Why do you not come to me out of the body, and enlighten me as to what you know?”
Féraz looked troubled.
“I cannot!” he said sadly—“When I go—away yonder—I seem to have so little remembrance of earthly things—I am separated from the world by thousands of air-spaces. I am always conscious that you exist on earth,—but it is always as of some one who will join me presently—not of one whom I am compelled to join. There is the strangeness of it. That is why I have very little belief in the notion of ghosts and spirits appearing to men—because I know positively that no detached soul willingly returns to or remains171 on earth. There is always the upward yearning. If it returns, it does so simply because it is, for some reason, commanded, not because of its own desire.”
“And who do you suppose commands it?” asked El-Râmi.
“The Highest of all Powers,”—replied Féraz reverently—“whom we all, whether spirit or mortal, obey.”
“From whom?” cried Féraz with agitation—“O my brother, from whom? From mortals perhaps—yes,—so long as it is permitted to you—but from Heaven—no! No, not from Heaven can you win obedience. For God’s sake do not boast of such power!”
He spoke passionately173, and in anxious earnest.
El-Râmi smiled.
“My good fellow, why excite yourself? I do not ‘boast’—I am simply—strong! If I am immortal, God Himself cannot slay174 me,—if I am mortal only, I can but die. I am indifferent either way. Only I will not shrink before an imaginary Divine terror till I prove what right it has to my submission175. Enough!—we have talked too much on this subject, and I have work to do.”
He turned to his writing-table as he spoke and was soon busy there. Féraz took up a book and tried to read, but his heart beat quickly, and he was overwhelmed by a deep sense of fear. The daring of his brother’s words smote him with a chill horror,—from time immemorial, had not the forces divine punished pride as the deadliest of sins? His thoughts travelled over the great plain of History, on which so many spectres of dead nations stand in our sight as pale warnings of our own possible fate, and remembered how surely it came to pass that when men became too proud and defiant176 and absolute,—rejecting God and serving themselves only, then they were swept away into desolation and oblivion. As with nations, so with individuals—the Law of Compensation is just, and as evenly balanced as the symmetrical motion of the Universe. And the words, “Except ye become as little children ye shall not enter the Kingdom of Heaven,” rang through his ears, as he sat heavily silent, and wondering, wondering where the researches of his brother would end, and how?
El-Râmi himself meanwhile was scanning the last pages of his dead friend Kremlin’s private journal. This was a strange book,—kept with exceeding care, and written in the form of letters which were all addressed “To the Beloved Maroussia in Heaven”—and amply proved that, in spite of the separated seclusion and eccentricity177 of his life, Kremlin had not only been faithful to the love of his early days, the girl who had died self-slain in her Russian prison,—but he had been firm in his acceptance of and belief in the immortality178 of the soul and the reunion of parted spirits. His last “letter” ran thus—it was unfinished and had been written the night before the fatal storm which had made an end of his life and learning together,—
“I seem to be now on the verge179 of the discovery for which I have yearned180. Thou knowest, O heart of my heart, how I dream that these brilliant and ceaseless vibrations181 of light may perchance carry to the world some message which it were well and wise we should know. Oh, if this ‘Light,’ which is my problem and mystery, could but transmit to my earthly vision one flashing gleam of thy presence, my beloved child! But thou wilt182 guide me, so that I presume not too far;—I feel thou art near me, and that thou wilt not fail me at the last. If in the space of an earthly ten minutes this marvellous ‘Light’ can travel 111,600,000 miles, thou as a ‘spirit of light’ canst not be very far away. Only till my work for poor humanity is done, do I choose to be parted from thee—be the time long or short—we shall meet. ...”
Here the journal ended.
“And have they met?” thought El-Râmi, as closing the book he locked it away in his desk—“And do they remember they were ever mortal? And what are they—and where are they?”
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propound
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| v.提出 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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craves
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| 渴望，热望( crave的第三人称单数 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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recoil
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imposture
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| n.冒名顶替，欺骗 | |
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rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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18
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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19
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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20
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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21
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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22
shipwrecks
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| 海难，船只失事( shipwreck的名词复数 )； 沉船 | |
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23
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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24
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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25
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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26
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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27
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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28
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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29
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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30
tricky
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| adj.狡猾的，奸诈的；(工作等)棘手的，微妙的 | |
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31
gullibility
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| n.易受骗，易上当，轻信 | |
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32
creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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33
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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34
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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35
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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36
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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37
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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38
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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39
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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40
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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41
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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42
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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43
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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44
lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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45
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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46
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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47
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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48
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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49
concise
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| adj.简洁的，简明的 | |
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50
spoke
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|
| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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51
entirely
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|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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52
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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53
meridian
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| adj.子午线的；全盛期的 | |
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54
frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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55
seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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56
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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57
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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58
miserable
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|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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59
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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60
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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61
engross
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| v.使全神贯注 | |
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62
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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63
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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64
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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65
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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66
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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67
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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68
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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69
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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70
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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71
chafe
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| v.擦伤；冲洗；惹怒 | |
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72
goading
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| v.刺激( goad的现在分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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73
prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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74
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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75
resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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76
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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77
fermenting
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| v.（使）发酵( ferment的现在分词 )；（使）激动；骚动；骚扰 | |
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78
propounding
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的现在分词 ) | |
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79
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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80
divers
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|
| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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81
obstinately
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|
| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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82
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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83
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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84
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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85
parlance
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| n.说法；语调 | |
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86
malleable
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|
| adj.(金属)可锻的;有延展性的；(性格)可训练的 | |
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87
capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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88
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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89
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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90
exquisite
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|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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91
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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92
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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93
diplomacy
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|
| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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94
deplores
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的第三人称单数 ) | |
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95
fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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96
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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97
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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98
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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99
nethermost
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| adj.最下面的 | |
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100
wailing
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|
| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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101
hovered
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|
| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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102
dismal
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|
| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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103
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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104
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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105
unreasonable
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|
| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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106
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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107
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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108
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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109
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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110
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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111
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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112
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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113
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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114
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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115
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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116
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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117
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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118
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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119
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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120
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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121
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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122
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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123
bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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124
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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125
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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126
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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127
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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128
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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129
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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130
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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131
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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132
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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133
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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134
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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135
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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136
oblivious
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|
| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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137
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
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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139
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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140
skulk
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| v.藏匿；潜行 | |
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141
propitiate
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| v.慰解，劝解 | |
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142
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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143
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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144
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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145
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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146
wedlock
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| n.婚姻，已婚状态 | |
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147
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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148
urbanely
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| adv.都市化地，彬彬有礼地，温文尔雅地 | |
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149
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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151
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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152
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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153
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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154
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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155
expressively
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| ad.表示(某事物)地；表达地 | |
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156
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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157
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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158
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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159
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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160
preys
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| v.掠食( prey的第三人称单数 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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161
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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162
volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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163
lava
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| n.熔岩，火山岩 | |
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164
rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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165
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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166
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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167
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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168
cubs
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| n.幼小的兽，不懂规矩的年轻人( cub的名词复数 ) | |
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169
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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170
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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171
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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172
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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173
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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174
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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175
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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176
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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177
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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178
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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179
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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180
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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181
vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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182
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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