Whose hope still grovels4 in this dark sojourn5.
But lofty souls can look beyond the tomb,
Can smile at fate, and wonder how they mourn.
Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return?
Is yonder wave the sun’s eternal bed?—
Soon shall the orient with new lustre6 burn,
And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed,
Again attune7 the grove3, again adorn8 the mead9!
BEATTIE
Emily, called, as she had requested, at an early hour, awoke, little refreshed by sleep, for uneasy dreams had pursued her, and marred10 the kindest blessing11 of the unhappy. But, when she opened her casement12, looked out upon the woods, bright with the morning sun, and inspired the pure air, her mind was soothed13. The scene was filled with that cheering freshness, which seems to breathe the very spirit of health, and she heard only sweet and PICTURESQUE14 sounds, if such an expression may be allowed — the matin-bell of a distant convent, the faint murmur15 of the sea-waves, the song of birds, and the far-off low of cattle, which she saw coming slowly on between the trunks of trees. Struck with the circumstances of imagery around her, she indulged the pensive16 tranquillity17 which they inspired; and while she leaned on her window, waiting till St. Aubert should descend18 to breakfast, her ideas arranged themselves in the following lines:
THE FIRST HOUR OF MORNING
How sweet to wind the forest’s tangled19 shade,
When early twilight20, from the eastern bound,
Dawns on the sleeping landscape in the glade21,
And fades as morning spreads her blush around!
When ev’ry infant flower, that wept in night,
Lifts its chill head soft glowing with a tear,
Expands its tender blossom to the light,
And gives its incense22 to the genial23 air.
How fresh the breeze that wafts24 the rich perfume,
And swells25 the melody of waking birds;
The hum of bees, beneath the verdant26 gloom,
And woodman’s song, and low of distant herds27!
Then, doubtful gleams the mountain’s hoary28 head,
Seen through the parting foliage29 from afar;
And, farther still, the ocean’s misty30 bed,
With flitting sails, that partial sun-beams share.
But, vain the sylvan31 shade — the breath of May,
The voice of music floating on the gale32,
And forms, that beam through morning’s dewy veil,
If health no longer bid the heart be gay!
O balmy hour! ’tis thine her wealth to give,
Here spread her blush, and bid the parent live!
Emily now heard persons moving below in the cottage, and presently the voice of Michael, who was talking to his mules33, as he led them forth34 from a hut adjoining. As she left her room, St. Aubert, who was now risen, met her at the door, apparently35 as little restored by sleep as herself. She led him down stairs to the little parlour, in which they had supped on the preceding night, where they found a neat breakfast set out, while the host and his daughter waited to bid them good-morrow.
‘I envy you this cottage, my good friends,’ said St. Aubert, as he met them, ‘it is so pleasant, so quiet, and so neat; and this air, that one breathes — if any thing could restore lost health, it would surely be this air.’
La Voisin bowed gratefully, and replied, with the gallantry of a Frenchman, ‘Our cottage may be envied, sir, since you and Mademoiselle have honoured it with your presence.’ St. Aubert gave him a friendly smile for his compliment, and sat down to a table, spread with cream, fruit, new cheese, butter, and coffee. Emily, who had observed her father with attention and thought he looked very ill, endeavoured to persuade him to defer36 travelling till the afternoon; but he seemed very anxious to be at home, and his anxiety he expressed repeatedly, and with an earnestness that was unusual with him. He now said, he found himself as well as he had been of late, and that he could bear travelling better in the cool hour of the morning, than at any other time. But, while he was talking with his venerable host, and thanking him for his kind attentions, Emily observed his countenance37 change, and, before she could reach him, he fell back in his chair. In a few moments he recovered from the sudden faintness that had come over him, but felt so ill, that he perceived himself unable to set out, and, having remained a little while, struggling against the pressure of indisposition, he begged he might be helped up stairs to bed. This request renewed all the terror which Emily had suffered on the preceding evening; but, though scarcely able to support herself, under the sudden shock it gave her, she tried to conceal38 her apprehensions39 from St. Aubert, and gave her trembling arm to assist him to the door of his chamber40.
When he was once more in bed, he desired that Emily, who was then weeping in her own room, might be called; and, as she came, he waved his hand for every other person to quit the apartment. When they were alone, he held out his hand to her, and fixed41 his eyes upon her countenance, with an expression so full of tenderness and grief, that all her fortitude42 forsook43 her, and she burst into an agony of tears. St. Aubert seemed struggling to acquire firmness, but was still unable to speak; he could only press her hand, and check the tears that stood trembling in his eyes. At length he commanded his voice, ‘My dear child,’ said he, trying to smile through his anguish44, ‘my dear Emily!’— and paused again. He raised his eyes to heaven, as if in prayer, and then, in a firmer tone, and with a look, in which the tenderness of the father was dignified45 by the pious46 solemnity of the saint, he said, “My dear child, I would soften47 the painful truth I have to tell you, but I find myself quite unequal to the art. Alas48! I would, at this moment, conceal it from you, but that it would be most cruel to deceive you. It cannot be long before we must part; let us talk of it, that our thoughts and our prayers may prepare us to bear it.’ His voice faltered49, while Emily, still weeping, pressed his hand close to her heart, which swelled50 with a convulsive sigh, but she could not look up.
‘Let me not waste these moments,’ said St. Aubert, recovering himself, ‘I have much to say. There is a circumstance of solemn consequence, which I have to mention, and a solemn promise to obtain from you; when this is done I shall be easier. You have observed, my dear, how anxious I am to reach home, but know not all my reasons for this. Listen to what I am going to say.— Yet stay — before I say more give me this promise, a promise made to your dying father!’— St. Aubert was interrupted; Emily, struck by his last words, as if for the first time, with a conviction of his immediate51 danger, raised her head; her tears stopped, and, gazing at him for a moment with an expression of unutterable anguish, a slight convulsion seized her, and she sunk senseless in her chair. St. Aubert’s cries brought La Voisin and his daughter to the room, and they administered every means in their power to restore her, but, for a considerable time, without effect. When she recovered, St. Aubert was so exhausted52 by the scene he had witnessed, that it was many minutes before he had strength to speak; he was, however, somewhat revived by a cordial, which Emily gave him; and, being again alone with her, he exerted himself to tranquilize her spirits, and to offer her all the comfort of which her situation admitted. She threw herself into his arms, wept on his neck, and grief made her so insensible to all he said, that he ceased to offer the alleviations, which he himself could not, at this moment, feel, and mingled53 his silent tears with hers. Recalled, at length, to a sense of duty, she tried to spare her father from a farther view of her suffering; and, quitting his embrace, dried her tears, and said something, which she meant for consolation54. ‘My dear Emily,’ replied St. Aubert, ‘my dear child, we must look up with humble55 confidence to that Being, who has protected and comforted us in every danger, and in every affliction we have known; to whose eye every moment of our lives has been exposed; he will not, he does not, forsake58 us now; I feel his consolations59 in my heart. I shall leave you, my child, still in his care; and, though I depart from this world, I shall be still in his presence. Nay60, weep not again, my Emily. In death there is nothing new, or surprising, since we all know, that we are born to die; and nothing terrible to those, who can confide56 in an all-powerful God. Had my life been spared now, after a very few years, in the course of nature, I must have resigned it; old age, with all its train of infirmity, its privations and its sorrows, would have been mine; and then, at last, death would have come, and called forth the tears you now shed. Rather, my child, rejoice, that I am saved from such suffering, and that I am permitted to die with a mind unimpaired, and sensible of the comforts of faith and resignation.’ St. Aubert paused, fatigued61 with speaking. Emily again endeavoured to assume an air of composure; and, in replying to what he had said, tried to sooth him with a belief, that he had not spoken in vain.
When he had reposed63 a while, he resumed the conversation. ‘Let me return,’ said he, ‘to a subject, which is very near my heart. I said I had a solemn promise to receive from you; let me receive it now, before I explain the chief circumstance which it concerns; there are others, of which your peace requires that you should rest in ignorance. Promise, then, that you will perform exactly what I shall enjoin64.’
Emily, awed65 by the earnest solemnity of his manner, dried her tears, that had begun again to flow, in spite of her efforts to suppress them; and, looking eloquently66 at St. Aubert, bound herself to do whatever he should require by a vow67, at which she shuddered68, yet knew not why.
He proceeded: ‘I know you too well, my Emily, to believe, that you would break any promise, much less one thus solemnly given; your assurance gives me peace, and the observance of it is of the utmost importance to your tranquillity. Hear, then, what I am going to tell you. The closet, which adjoins my chamber at La Vallee, has a sliding board in the floor. You will know it by a remarkable69 knot in the wood, and by its being the next board, except one, to the wainscot, which fronts the door. At the distance of about a yard from that end, nearer the window, you will perceive a line across it, as if the plank70 had been joined;— the way to open it is this:— Press your foot upon the line; the end of the board will then sink, and you may slide it with ease beneath the other. Below, you will see a hollow place.’ St. Aubert paused for breath, and Emily sat fixed in deep attention. ‘Do you understand these directions, my dear?’ said he. Emily, though scarcely able to speak, assured him that she did.
‘When you return home, then,’ he added with a deep sigh —
At the mention of her return home, all the melancholy71 circumstances, that must attend this return, rushed upon her fancy; she burst into convulsive grief, and St. Aubert himself, affected72 beyond the resistance of the fortitude which he had, at first, summoned, wept with her. After some moments, he composed himself. ‘My dear child,’ said he, ‘be comforted. When I am gone, you will not be forsaken73 — I leave you only in the more immediate care of that Providence74, which has never yet forsaken me. Do not afflict57 me with this excess of grief; rather teach me by your example to bear my own.’ He stopped again, and Emily, the more she endeavoured to restrain her emotion, found it the less possible to do so.
St. Aubert, who now spoke62 with pain, resumed the subject. ‘That closet, my dear,— when you return home, go to it; and, beneath the board I have described, you will find a packet of written papers. Attend to me now, for the promise you have given particularly relates to what I shall direct. These papers you must burn — and, solemnly I command you, WITHOUT EXAMINING THEM.’
Emily’s surprise, for a moment, overcame her grief, and she ventured to ask, why this must be? St. Aubert replied, that, if it had been right for him to explain his reasons, her late promise would have been unnecessarily exacted. ‘It is sufficient for you, my love, to have a deep sense of the importance of observing me in this instance.’ St. Aubert proceeded. ‘Under that board you will also find about two hundred louis d’ors, wrapped in a silk purse; indeed, it was to secure whatever money might be in the chateau75, that this secret place was contrived76, at a time when the province was over-run by troops of men, who took advantage of the tumults77, and became plunderers.
‘But I have yet another promise to receive from you, which is — that you will never, whatever may be your future circumstances, SELL the chateau.’ St. Aubert even enjoined79 her, whenever she might marry, to make it an article in the contract, that the chateau should always be hers. He then gave her a more minute account of his present circumstances than he had yet done, adding, ‘The two hundred louis, with what money you will now find in my purse, is all the ready money I have to leave you. I have told you how I am circumstanced with M. Motteville, at Paris. Ah, my child! I leave you poor — but not destitute,’ he added, after a long pause. Emily could make no reply to any thing he now said, but knelt at the bed-side, with her face upon the quilt, weeping over the hand she held there.
After this conversation, the mind of St. Aubert appeared to be much more at ease; but, exhausted by the effort of speaking, he sunk into a kind of doze80, and Emily continued to watch and weep beside him, till a gentle tap at the chamber-door roused her. It was La Voisin, come to say, that a confessor from the neighbouring convent was below, ready to attend St. Aubert. Emily would not suffer her father to be disturbed, but desired, that the priest might not leave the cottage. When St. Aubert awoke from this doze, his senses were confused, and it was some moments before he recovered them sufficiently81 to know, that it was Emily who sat beside him. He then moved his lips, and stretched forth his hand to her; as she received which, she sunk back in her chair, overcome by the impression of death on his countenance. In a few minutes he recovered his voice, and Emily then asked, if he wished to see the confessor; he replied, that he did; and, when the holy father appeared, she withdrew. They remained alone together above half an hour; when Emily was called in, she found St. Aubert more agitated82 than when she had left him, and she gazed, with a slight degree of resentment83, at the friar, as the cause of this; who, however, looked mildly and mournfully at her, and turned away. St. Aubert, in a tremulous voice, said, he wished her to join in prayer with him, and asked if La Voisin would do so too. The old man and his daughter came; they both wept, and knelt with Emily round the bed, while the holy father read in a solemn voice the service for the dying. St. Aubert lay with a serene85 countenance, and seemed to join fervently86 in the devotion, while tears often stole from beneath his closed eyelids87, and Emily’s sobs88 more than once interrupted the service.
When it was concluded, and extreme unction had been administered, the friar withdrew. St. Aubert then made a sign for La Voisin to come nearer. He gave him his hand, and was, for a moment, silent. At length, he said, in a trembling voice, ‘My good friend, our acquaintance has been short, but long enough to give you an opportunity of shewing me much kind attention. I cannot doubt, that you will extend this kindness to my daughter, when I am gone; she will have need of it. I entrust89 her to your care during the few days she will remain here. I need say no more — you know the feelings of a father, for you have children; mine would be, indeed, severe if I had less confidence in you.’ He paused. La Voisin assured him, and his tears bore testimony90 to his sincerity91, that he would do all he could to soften her affliction, and that, if St. Aubert wished it, he would even attend her into Gascony; an offer so pleasing to St. Aubert, that he had scarcely words to acknowledge his sense of the old man’s kindness, or to tell him, that he accepted it. The scene, that followed between St. Aubert and Emily, affected La Voisin so much, that he quitted the chamber, and she was again left alone with her father, whose spirits seemed fainting fast, but neither his senses, or his voice, yet failed him; and, at intervals92, he employed much of these last awful moments in advising his daughter, as to her future conduct. Perhaps, he never had thought more justly, or expressed himself more clearly, than he did now.
‘Above all, my dear Emily,’ said he, ‘do not indulge in the pride of fine feeling, the romantic error of amiable93 minds. Those, who really possess sensibility, ought early to be taught, that it is a dangerous quality, which is continually extracting the excess of misery94, or delight, from every surrounding circumstance. And, since, in our passage through this world, painful circumstances occur more frequently than pleasing ones, and since our sense of evil is, I fear, more acute than our sense of good, we become the victims of our feelings, unless we can in some degree command them. I know you will say, (for you are young, my Emily) I know you will say, that you are contented96 sometimes to suffer, rather than to give up your refined sense of happiness, at others; but, when your mind has been long harassed97 by vicissitude98, you will be content to rest, and you will then recover from your delusion99. You will perceive, that the phantom100 of happiness is exchanged for the substance; for happiness arises in a state of peace, not of tumult78. It is of a temperate101 and uniform nature, and can no more exist in a heart, that is continually alive to minute circumstances, than in one that is dead to feeling. You see, my dear, that, though I would guard you against the dangers of sensibility, I am not an advocate for apathy102. At your age I should have said THAT is a vice84 more hateful than all the errors of sensibility, and I say so still. I call it a VICE, because it leads to positive evil; in this, however, it does no more than an ill- governed sensibility, which, by such a rule, might also be called a vice; but the evil of the former is of more general consequence. I have exhausted myself,’ said St. Aubert, feebly, ‘and have wearied you, my Emily; but, on a subject so important to your future comfort, I am anxious to be perfectly103 understood.’
Emily assured him, that his advice was most precious to her, and that she would never forget it, or cease from endeavouring to profit by it. St. Aubert smiled affectionately and sorrowfully upon her. ‘I repeat it,’ said he, ‘I would not teach you to become insensible, if I could; I would only warn you of the evils of susceptibility, and point out how you may avoid them. Beware, my love, I conjure104 you, of that self-delusion, which has been fatal to the peace of so many persons; beware of priding yourself on the gracefulness105 of sensibility; if you yield to this vanity, your happiness is lost for ever. Always remember how much more valuable is the strength of fortitude, than the grace of sensibility. Do not, however, confound fortitude with apathy; apathy cannot know the virtue106. Remember, too, that one act of beneficence, one act of real usefulness, is worth all the abstract sentiment in the world. Sentiment is a disgrace, instead of an ornament107, unless it lead us to good actions. The miser95, who thinks himself respectable, merely because he possesses wealth, and thus mistakes the means of doing good, for the actual accomplishment108 of it, is not more blameable than the man of sentiment, without active virtue. You may have observed persons, who delight so much in this sort of sensibility to sentiment, which excludes that to the calls of any practical virtue, that they turn from the distressed109, and, because their sufferings are painful to be contemplated110, do not endeavour to relieve them. How despicable is that humanity, which can be contented to pity, where it might assuage111!’
St. Aubert, some time after, spoke of Madame Cheron, his sister. ‘Let me inform you of a circumstance, that nearly affects your welfare,’ he added. ‘We have, you know, had little intercourse112 for some years, but, as she is now your only female relation, I have thought it proper to consign113 you to her care, as you will see in my will, till you are of age, and to recommend you to her protection afterwards. She is not exactly the person, to whom I would have committed my Emily, but I had no alternative, and I believe her to be upon the whole — a good kind of woman. I need not recommend it to your prudence114, my love, to endeavour to conciliate her kindness; you will do this for his sake, who has often wished to do so for yours.’
Emily assured him, that, whatever he requested she would religiously perform to the utmost of her ability. ‘Alas!’ added she, in a voice interrupted by sighs, ‘that will soon be all which remains115 for me; it will be almost my only consolation to fulfil your wishes.’
St. Aubert looked up silently in her face, as if would have spoken, but his spirit sunk a while, and his eyes became heavy and dull. She felt that look at her heart. ‘My dear father!’ she exclaimed; and then, checking herself, pressed his hand closer, and hid her face with her handkerchief. Her tears were concealed116, but St. Aubert heard her convulsive sobs. His spirits returned. ‘O my child!’ said he, faintly, ‘let my consolations be yours. I die in peace; for I know, that I am about to return to the bosom117 of my Father, who will still be your Father, when I am gone. Always trust in him, my love, and he will support you in these moments, as he supports me.’
Emily could only listen, and weep; but the extreme composure of his manner, and the faith and hope he expressed, somewhat soothed her anguish. Yet, whenever she looked upon his emaciated118 countenance, and saw the lines of death beginning to prevail over it — saw his sunk eyes, still bent119 on her, and their heavy lids pressing to a close, there was a pang120 in her heart, such as defied expression, though it required filial virtue, like hers, to forbear the attempt.
He desired once more to bless her; ‘Where are you, my dear?’ said he, as he stretched forth his hands. Emily had turned to the window, that he might not perceive her anguish; she now understood, that his sight had failed him. When he had given her his blessing, and it seemed to be the last effort of expiring life, he sunk back on his pillow. She kissed his forehead; the damps of death had settled there, and, forgetting her fortitude for a moment, her tears mingled with them. St. Aubert lifted up his eyes; the spirit of a father returned to them, but it quickly vanished, and he spoke no more.
St. Aubert lingered till about three o’clock in the afternoon, and, thus gradually sinking into death, he expired without a struggle, or a sigh.
Emily was led from the chamber by La Voisin and his daughter, who did what they could to comfort her. The old man sat and wept with her. Agnes was more erroneously officious.
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1
deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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2
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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3
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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4
grovels
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| v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的第三人称单数 )；趴 | |
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5
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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6
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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7
attune
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| v.使调和 | |
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8
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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9
mead
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| n.蜂蜜酒 | |
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10
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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11
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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12
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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13
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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14
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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15
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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16
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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17
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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18
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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19
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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20
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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21
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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wafts
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| n.空中飘来的气味，一阵气味( waft的名词复数 )；摇转风扇v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的第三人称单数 ) | |
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25
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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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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28
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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30
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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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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mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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36
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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37
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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41
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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42
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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43
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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44
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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45
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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46
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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47
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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48
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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49
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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50
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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51
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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52
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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53
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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54
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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55
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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56
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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57
afflict
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| vt.使身体或精神受痛苦，折磨 | |
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58
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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59
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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60
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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61
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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62
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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63
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
enjoin
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| v.命令；吩咐；禁止 | |
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65
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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67
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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68
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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69
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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70
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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71
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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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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73
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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74
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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76
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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tumults
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| 吵闹( tumult的名词复数 )； 喧哗； 激动的吵闹声； 心烦意乱 | |
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78
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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81
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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82
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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83
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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84
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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85
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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86
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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87
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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88
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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89
entrust
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| v.信赖，信托，交托 | |
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90
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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91
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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92
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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93
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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94
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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95
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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96
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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97
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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98
vicissitude
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| n.变化，变迁，荣枯，盛衰 | |
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99
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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100
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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101
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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102
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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103
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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104
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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105
gracefulness
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106
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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107
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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108
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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109
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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110
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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111
assuage
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| v.缓和，减轻，镇定 | |
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112
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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113
consign
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| vt.寄售（货品），托运，交托，委托 | |
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114
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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115
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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116
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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117
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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118
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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119
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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120
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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