They lunched at a small mountain inn. The weather was good, the moun-tains beautiful. Occasionally Stafford Nye wondered what on earth he wasdoing here. He understood less and less of his travelling companion. Shespoke little. He found himself watching her profile. Where was she takinghim? What was her real reason? At last, as the sun was almost setting, hesaid:
‘Where are we going? Can I ask?’
‘You can ask, yes.’
‘But you do not reply?’
‘I could reply. I could tell you things, but would they mean anything? Itseems to me that if you come to where we are going without my preparingyou with explanations (which cannot in the nature of things mean any-thing), your first impressions will have more force and significance.’
He looked at her again thoughtfully. She was wearing a tweed coattrimmed with fur, smart travelling clothes, foreign in make and cut.
‘Mary Ann,’ he said thoughtfully.
There was a faint question in it.
‘No,’ she said, ‘not at the moment.’
‘Ah. You are still the Countess Zerkowski.’
‘At the moment I am still the Countess Zerkowski.’
‘Are you in your own part of the world?’
‘More or less. I grew up as a child in this part of the world. For a goodportion of each year we used to come here in the autumn to a Schloss notvery many miles from here.’
He smiled and said thoughtfully, ‘What a nice word it is. A Schloss. Sosolid-sounding.’
‘Schl?sser are not standing2 very solidly nowadays. They are mostly dis-integrated.’
‘This is Hitler’s country, isn’t it? We’re not far, are we, from Berchtes-gaden?’
‘It lies over there to the north-east.’
‘Did your relations, your friends–did they accept Hitler, believe in him?
Perhaps I ought not to ask things like that.’
‘They disliked him and all he stood for. But they said “Heil Hitler”. Theyacquiesced in what had happened to their country. What else could theydo? What else could anybody do at that date?’
‘We are going towards the Dolomites, are we not?’
‘Does it matter where we are, or which way we are going?’
‘Well, this is a voyage of exploration, is it not?’
‘Yes, but the exploration is not geographical3. We are going to see a per-sonality.’
‘You make me feel–’ Stafford Nye looked up at the landscape of swellingmountains reaching up to the sky–‘as though we were going to visit thefamous Old Man of the Mountain.’
‘The Master of the Assassins, you mean, who kept his followers4 underdrugs so that they died for him wholeheartedly, so that they killed, know-ing that they themselves would also be killed, but believing, too, that thatwould transfer them immediately to the Moslem5 Paradise–beautiful wo-men, hashish and erotic dreams–perfect and unending happiness.’
She paused a minute and then said:
‘Spell-binders! I suppose they’ve always been there throughout the ages.
People who make you believe in them so that you are ready to die forthem. Not only Assassins. The Christians7 died also.’
‘The holy Martyrs8? Lord Altamount?’
‘Why do you say Lord Altamount?’
‘I saw him that way–suddenly–that evening. Carved in stone–in a thir-teenth-century cathedral, perhaps.’
‘One of us may have to die. Perhaps more.’
She stopped what he was about to say.
‘There is another thing I think of sometimes. A verse in the New Testa-ment–Luke, I think. Christ at the Last Supper saying to his followers: “Youare my companions and my friends, yet one of you is a devil.” So in all prob-ability one of us is a devil.’
‘You think it possible?’
‘Almost certain. Someone we trust and know, but who goes to sleep atnight, not dreaming of martyrdom but of thirty pieces of silver, and whowakes with the feel of them in the palm of his hand.’
‘The love of money?’
‘Ambition covers it better. How does one recognize a devil? How wouldone know? A devil would stand out in a crowd, would be exciting–wouldadvertise himself–would exercise leadership.’
She was silent a moment and then said in a thoughtful voice:
‘I had a friend once in the Diplomatic Service who told me how she hadsaid to a German woman how moved she herself had been at the perform-ance of the Passion Play at Oberammergau. But the German woman saidscornfully: “You do not understand. We Germans have no need of a JesusChrist! We have our Adolf Hitler here with us. He is greater than any Jesusthat ever lived.” She was quite a nice ordinary woman. But that is how shefelt. Masses of people felt it. Hitler was a spell-binder. He spoke1 and theylistened–and accepted the sadism, the gas chambers9, the tortures of theGestapo.’
She shrugged10 her shoulders and then said in her normal voice, ‘All thesame, it’s odd that you should have said what you did just now.’
‘What was that?’
‘About the Old Man of the Mountain. The head of the Assassins.’
‘Are you telling me there is an Old Man of the Mountain here?’
‘No. Not an Old Man of the Mountain, but there might be an Old Womanof the Mountain.’
‘An Old Woman of the Mountain. What’s she like?’
‘You’ll see this evening.’
‘What are we doing this evening?’
‘Going into society,’ said Renata.
‘It seems a long time since you’ve been Mary Ann.’
‘You’ll have to wait till we’re doing some air travel again.’
‘I suppose it’s very bad for one’s morale,’ Stafford Nye said thoughtfully,‘living high up in the world.’
‘Are you talking socially?’
‘No. Geographically11. If you live in a castle on a mountain peak overlook-ing the world below you, well, it makes you despise the ordinary folk,doesn’t it? You’re the top one, you’re the grand one. That’s what Hitler feltin Berchtesgaden, that’s what many people feel perhaps who climb moun-tains and look down on their fellow creatures in valleys below.’
‘You must be careful tonight,’ Renata warned him. ‘It’s going to be tick-lish.’
‘Any instructions?’
‘You’re a disgruntled man. You’re one that’s against the Establishment,against the conventional world. You’re a rebel, but a secret rebel. Can youdo it?’
‘I can try.’
The scenery had grown wilder. The big car twisted and turned up theroads, passing through mountain villages, sometimes looking down on abewilderingly distant view where lights shone on a river, where thesteeples of churches showed in the distance.
‘Where are we going, Mary Ann?’
‘To an Eagle’s nest.’
The road took a final turn. It wound through a forest. Stafford Nyethought he caught glimpses now and again of deer or of animals of somekind. Occasionally, too, there were leather-jacketed men with guns. Keep-ers, he thought. And then they came finally to a view of an enormousSchloss standing on a crag. Some of it, he thought, was partially13 ruined,though most of it had been restored and rebuilt. It was both massive andmagnificent but there was nothing new about it or in the message it held.
It was representative of past power, power held through bygone ages.
‘This was originally the Grand Duchy of Liechtenstolz. The Schloss wasbuilt by the Grand Duke Ludwig in 1790,’ said Renata.
‘Who lives there now? The present Grand Duke?’
‘No. They’re all gone and done with. Swept away.’
‘And who lives here now then?’
‘Someone who has present-day power,’ said Renata.
‘Money?’
‘Yes. Very much so.’
‘Shall we meet Mr Robinson, flown on ahead by air to greet us?’
‘The last person you’ll meet here will be Mr Robinson, I can assure you.’
‘A pity,’ said Stafford Nye. ‘I like Mr Robinson. He’s quite something,isn’t he? Who is he really–what nationality is he?’
‘I don’t think anybody has ever known. Everyone tells one somethingdifferent. Some people say he’s a Turk, some that he’s an Armenian, somethat he’s Dutch, some that he’s just plain English. Some say that his motherwas a Circassian slave, a Russian Grand-Duchess, an Indian Begum and soon. Nobody knows. One person told me that his mother was a Miss McLel-lan from Scotland. I think that’s as likely as anything.’
They had drawn14 up beneath a large portico15. Two men-servants in liverycame down the steps. Their bows were ostentatious as they welcomed theguests. The luggage was removed; they had a good deal of luggage withthem. Stafford Nye had wondered to begin with why he had been told tobring so much, but he was beginning to understand now that from time totime there was need for it. There would, he thought, be need for it thisevening. A few questioning remarks and his companion told him that thiswas so.
They met before dinner, summoned by the sound of a great resoundinggong. As he paused in the hall, he waited for her to join him coming downthe stairs. She was in full elaborate evening dress tonight, wearing a darkred velvet16 gown, rubies17 round her neck and a ruby18 tiara on her head. Amanservant stepped forward and conducted them. Flinging open the door,he announced:
‘The Gr?fin12 Zerkowski, Sir Stafford Nye.’
‘Here we come, and I hope we look the part,’ said Sir Stafford Nye tohimself.
He looked down in a satisfied manner at the sapphire19 and diamondstuds in the front of his shirt. A moment later he had drawn his breath inan astonished gasp20. Whatever he had expected to see it had not been this.
It was an enormous room, rococo21 in style, chairs and sofas and hangingsof the finest brocades and velvets. On the walls there were pictures that hecould not recognize all at once, but where he noted22 almost immediately–for he was fond of pictures–what was certainly a Cézanne, a Matisse, pos-sibly a Renoir. Pictures of inestimable value.
Sitting on a vast chair, throne-like in its suggestion, was an enormouswoman. A whale of a woman, Stafford Nye thought, there really was noother word to describe her. A great, big, cheesy-looking woman, wallow-ing in fat. Double, treble, almost quadruple chins. She wore a dress of stifforange satin. On her head was an elaborate crown-like tiara of preciousstones. Her hands, which rested on the brocaded arms of her seat, werealso enormous. Great, big, fat hands with great, big, fat, shapeless fingers.
On each finger, he noticed, was a solitaire ring. And in each ring, hethought, was a genuine solitaire stone. A ruby, an emerald, a sapphire, adiamond, a pale green stone which he did not know, a chrysoprase, per-haps, a yellow stone which, if not a topaz, was a yellow diamond. She washorrible, he thought. She wallowed in her fat. A great, white, creased23, slob-bering mass of fat was her face. And set in it, rather like currants in a vastcurrant bun, were two small black eyes. Very shrewd eyes, looking on theworld, appraising24 it, appraising him, not appraising Renata, he thought.
Renata she knew. Renata was here by command, by appointment. How-ever you liked to put it. Renata had been told to bring him here. Hewondered why. He couldn’t really think why, but he was quite sure of it. Itwas at him she was looking. She was appraising him, summing him up.
Was he what she wanted? Was he, yes, he’d rather put it this way, was hewhat the customer had ordered?
I’ll have to make quite sure that I know what it is she does want, hethought. I’ll have to do my best, otherwise…Otherwise he could quite ima-gine that she might raise a fat ringed hand and say to one of the tall, mus-cular footmen: ‘Take him and throw him over the battlements.’ It’s ridicu-lous, thought Stafford Nye. Such things can’t happen nowadays. Where amI? What kind of a parade, a masquerade or a theatrical25 performance am Itaking part in?
‘You have come very punctual to time, child.’
It was a hoarse26, asthmatic voice which had once had an undertone, hethought, of strength, possibly even of beauty. That was over now. Renatacame forward, made a slight curtsy. She picked up the fat hand anddropped a courtesy kiss upon it.
‘Let me present to you Sir Stafford Nye. The Gr?fin Charlotte von Wald-sausen.’
The fat hand was extended towards him. He bent27 over it in the foreignstyle. Then she said something that surprised him.
‘I know your great-aunt,’ she said.
He looked astounded28, and he saw immediately that she was amused bythat, but he saw too, that she had expected him to be surprised by it. Shelaughed, a rather queer, grating laugh. Not attractive.
‘Shall we say, I used to know her. It is many, many years since I haveseen her. We were in Switzerland together, at Lausanne, as girls. Matilda.
Lady Matilda Baldwen-White.’
‘What a wonderful piece of news to take home with me,’ said StaffordNye.
‘She is older than I am. She is in good health?’
‘For her age, in very good health. She lives in the country quietly. Shehas arthritis29, rheumatism30.’
‘Ah yes, all the ills of old age. She should have injections of procaine.
That is what the doctors do here in this altitude. It is very satisfactory.
Does she know that you are visiting me?’
‘I imagine that she has not the least idea of it,’ said Sir Stafford Nye. ‘Sheknew only that I was going to this festival of modern music.’
‘Which you enjoyed, I hope?’
‘Oh, enormously. It is a fine Festival Opera Hall, is it not?’
‘One of the finest. Pah! It makes the old Bayreuth Festival Hall look likea comprehensive school! Do you know what it cost to build, that OperaHouse?’
She mentioned a sum in millions of marks. It quite took Stafford Nye’sbreath away, but he was under no necessity to conceal31 that. She waspleased with the effect it made upon him.
‘With money,’ she said, ‘if one knows, if one has the ability, if one hasthe discrimination, what is there that money cannot do? It can give onethe best.’
She said the last two words with a rich enjoyment32, a kind of smacking33 ofthe lips which he found both unpleasant and at the same time slightly sin-ister.
‘I see that here,’ he said, as he looked round the walls.
‘You are fond of art? Yes, I see you are. There, on the east wall is thefinest Cézanne in the world today. Some say that the–ah, I forget the nameof it at the moment, the one in the Metropolitan34 in New York–is finer. Thatis not true. The best Matisse, the best Cézanne, the best of all that greatschool of art are here. Here in my mountain eyrie.’
‘It is wonderful,’ said Sir Stafford. ‘Quite wonderful.’
Drinks were being handed round. The Old Woman of the Mountain, SirStafford Nye noticed, did not drink anything. It was possible, he thought,that she feared to take any risks over her blood pressure with that vastweight.
‘And where did you meet this child?’ asked the mountainous Dragon.
Was it a trap? He did not know, but he made his decision.
‘At the American Embassy, in London.’
‘Ah yes, so I heard. And how is–ah, I forget her name now–ah yes, MillyJean, our southern heiress? Attractive, did you think?’
‘Most charming. She has a great success in London.’
‘And poor dull Sam Cortman, the United States Ambassador?’
‘A very sound man, I’m sure,’ said Stafford Nye politely.
She chuckled35.
‘Aha, you’re tactful, are you not? Ah well, he does well enough. He doeswhat he is told as a good politician should. And it is enjoyable to be Am-bassador in London. She could do that for him, Milly Jean. Ah, she couldget him an Embassy anywhere in the world, with that well-stuffed purseof hers. Her father owns half the oil in Texas, he owns land, goldfields,everything. A coarse, singularly ugly man–But what does she look like? Agentle little aristocrat36. Not blatant37, not rich. That is very clever of her, is itnot?’
‘Sometimes it presents no difficulties,’ said Sir Stafford Nye.
‘And you? You are not rich?’
‘I wish I was.’
‘The Foreign Office nowadays, it is not, shall we say, very rewarding?’
‘Oh well, I would not put it like that… After all, one goes places, onemeets amusing people, one sees the world, one sees something of whatgoes on.’
‘Something, yes. But not everything.’
‘That would be very difficult.’
‘Have you ever wished to see what–how shall I put it–what goes on be-hind the scenes in life?’
‘One has an idea sometimes.’ He made his voice non-committal.
‘I have heard it said that that is true of you, that you have sometimesideas about things. Not perhaps the conventional ideas?’
‘There have been times when I’ve been made to feel the bad boy of thefamily,’ said Stafford Nye and laughed.
Old Charlotte chuckled.
‘You don’t mind admitting things now and again, do you?’
‘Why pretend? People always know what you’re concealing38.’
She looked at him.
‘What do you want out of life, young man?’
He shrugged his shoulders. Here again, he had to play things by ear.
‘Nothing,’ he said.
‘Come now, come now, am I to believe that?’
‘Yes, you can believe it. I am not ambitious. Do I look ambitious?’
‘No, I will admit that.’
‘I ask only to be amused, to live comfortably, to eat, to drink in modera-tion, to have friends who amuse me.’
The old woman leant forward. Her eyes snapped open and shut three orfour times. Then she spoke in a rather different voice. It was like a whist-ling note.
‘Can you hate? Are you capable of hating?’
‘To hate is a waste of time.’
‘I see. I see. There are no lines of discontent in your face. That is trueenough. All the same, I think you are ready to take a certain path whichwill lead you to a certain place, and you will go along it smiling, as thoughyou did not care, but all the same, in the end, if you find the right advisers,the right helpers, you might attain39 what you want, if you are capable ofwanting.’
‘As to that,’ said Stafford Nye, ‘who isn’t?’ He shook his head at her verygently. ‘You see too much,’ he said. ‘Much too much.’
Footmen threw open a door.
‘Dinner is served.’
The proceedings40 were properly formal. They had indeed almost a royaltinge about them. The big doors at the far end of the room were flungopen, showing through to a brightly lighted ceremonial dining-room, witha painted ceiling and three enormous chandeliers. Two middle-aged41 wo-men approached the Gr?fin, one on either side. They wore evening dress,their grey hair was carefully piled on their heads, each wore a diamondbrooch. To Sir Stafford Nye, all the same, they brought a faint flavour ofwardresses. They were, he thought, not so much security guards as per-haps high-class nursing attendants in charge of the health, the toilet andother intimate details of the Gr?fin Charlotte’s existence. After respectfulbows, each one of them slipped an arm below the shoulder and elbow ofthe sitting woman. With the ease of long practice aided by the effort whichwas obviously as much as she could make, they raised her to her feet in adignified fashion.
‘We will go in to dinner now,’ said Charlotte.
With her two female attendants, she led the way. On her feet she lookedeven more a mass of wobbling jelly, yet she was still formidable. Youcould not dispose of her in your mind as just a fat old woman. She wassomebody, knew she was somebody, intended to be somebody. Behind thethree of them he and Renata followed.
As they entered through the portals of the dining-room, he felt it was al-most more a banquet hall than a dining-room. There was a bodyguardhere. Tall, fair-haired, handsome young men. They wore some kind of uni-form. As Charlotte entered there was a clash as one and all drew theirswords. They cross them overhead to make a passageway, and Charlotte,steadying herself, passed along that passageway, released by her attend-ants and making her progress solo to a vast carved chair with gold fittingsand upholstered in golden brocade at the head of the long table. It wasrather like a wedding procession, Stafford Nye thought. A naval43 or milit-ary one. In this case surely, military, strictly44 military–but lacking a bride-groom.
They were all young men of super physique. None of them, he thought,was older than thirty. They had good looks, their health was evident. Theydid not smile, they were entirely45 serious, they were–he thought of a wordfor it–yes, dedicated46. Perhaps not so much a military procession as a reli-gious one. The servitors appeared, old-fashioned servitors belonging, hethought, to the Schloss’s past, to a time before the 1939 war. It was like asuper production of a period historic play. And queening over it, sitting inthe chair or the throne or whatever you liked to call it, at the head of thetable, was not a queen or an empress but an old woman noticeable mainlyfor her avoirdupois weight and her extraordinary and intense ugliness.
Who was she? What was she doing here? Why?
Why all this masquerade, why this bodyguard42, a security bodyguardperhaps? Other diners came to the table. They bowed to the monstrosityon the presiding throne and took their places. They wore ordinary even-ing dress. No introductions were made.
Stafford Nye, after long years of sizing up people, assessed them. Differ-ent types. A great many different types. Lawyers, he was certain. Severallawyers. Possibly accountants or financiers; one or two army officers inplain clothes. They were of the Household, he thought, but they were alsoin the old-fashioned feudal47 sense of the term those who ‘sat below thesalt’.
Food came. A vast boar’s head pickled in aspic, venison, a cool refresh-ing lemon sorbet, a magnificent edifice48 of pastry–a super millefeuille thatseemed of unbelievable confectionary richness.
The vast woman ate, ate greedily, hungrily, enjoying her food. From out-side came a new sound. The sound of the powerful engine of a supersports car. It passed the windows in a white flash. There came a cry insidethe room from the bodyguard. A great cry of ‘Heil! Heil! Heil Franz!’
The bodyguard of young men moved with the ease of a military man-oeuvre known by heart. Everyone had risen to their feet. Only the old wo-man sat without moving, her head lifted high, on her dais. And, so StaffordNye thought, a new excitement now permeated49 the room.
The other guests, or the other members of the household, whatever theywere, disappeared in a way that somehow reminded Stafford of lizardsdisappearing into the cracks of a wall. The golden-haired boys formed anew figure, their swords flew out, they saluted51 their patroness, she bowedher head in acknowledgment, their swords were sheathed52 and theyturned, permission given, to march out through the door of the room. Hereyes followed them, then went first to Renata, and then to Stafford Nye.
‘What do you think of them?’ she said. ‘My boys, my youth corps53, mychildren. Yes, my children. Have you a word that can describe them?’
‘I think so,’ said Stafford Nye. ‘Magnificent.’ He spoke to her as to Roy-alty. ‘Magnificent, ma’am.’
‘Ah!’ She bowed her head. She smiled, the wrinkles multiplying all overher face. It made her look exactly like a crocodile.
A terrible woman, he thought, a terrible woman, impossible, dramatic.
Was any of this happening? He couldn’t believe it was. What could this bebut yet another festival hall in which a production was being given.
The doors clashed open again. The yellow-haired band of the young su-permen marched as before through it. This time they did not wieldswords, instead they sang. Sang with unusual beauty of tone and voice.
After a good many years of pop music Stafford Nye felt an incredulouspleasure. Trained voices, these. Not raucous54 shouting. Trained by mastersof the singing art. Not allowed to strain their vocal55 cords, to be off key.
They might be the new Heroes of a New World, but what they sang wasnot new music. It was music he had heard before. An arrangement of thePreislied, there must be a concealed56 orchestra somewhere, he thought, ina gallery round the top of the room. It was an arrangement or adaptationof various Wagnerian themes. It passed from the Preislied to the distantechoes of the Rhine music.
The Elite57 Corps made once more a double lane where somebody was ex-pected to make an entrance. It was not the old Empress this time. She saton her dais awaiting whoever was coming.
And at last he came. The music changed as he came. It gave out that mo-tif which by now Stafford Nye had got by heart. The melody of the YoungSiegfried. Siegfried’s horn call, rising up in its youth and its triumph, itsmastery of a new world which the young Siegfried came to conquer.
Through the doorway58, marching up between the lines of what wereclearly his followers, came one of the handsomest young men Stafford Nyehad ever seen. Golden-haired, blue-eyed, perfectly59 proportioned, conjuredup as it were by the wave of a magician’s wand, he came forth6 out of theworld of myth. Myth, heroes, resurrection, rebirth, it was all there. Hisbeauty, his strength, his incredible assurance and arrogance60.
He strode through the double lines of his bodyguard, until he stood be-fore the hideous61 mountain of womanhood that sat there on her throne; heknelt on one knee, raised her hand to his lips, and then rising to his feet,he threw up one arm in salutation and uttered the cry that Stafford Nyehad heard from the others. ‘Heil!’ His German was not very clear, butStafford Nye thought he distinguished62 the syllables63 ‘Heil to the greatmother!’
Then the handsome young hero looked from one side to the other. Therewas some faint recognition, though an uninterested one, of Renata, butwhen his gaze turned to Stafford Nye, there was definite interest and ap-praisal. Caution, thought Stafford Nye. Caution! He must play his partright now. Play the part that was expected of him. Only–what the hell wasthat part? What was he doing here? What were he or the girl supposed tobe doing here? Why had they come?
The hero spoke.
‘So,’ he said, ‘we have guests!’ And he added, smiling with the arroganceof a young man who knows that he is vastly superior to any other personin the world. ‘Welcome, guests, welcome to you both.’
Somewhere in the depths of the Schloss a great bell began tolling64. It hadno funereal65 sound about it, but it had a disciplinary air. The feeling of amonastery summoned to some holy office.
‘We must sleep now,’ said old Charlotte. ‘Sleep. We will meet again to-morrow morning at eleven o’clock.’
She looked towards Renata and Sir Stafford Nye.
‘You will be shown to your rooms. I hope you will sleep well.’
It was the Royal dismissal.
Stafford Nye saw Renata’s arm fly up in the Fascist66 salute50, but it was ad-dressed not to Charlotte, but to the golden- haired boy. He thought shesaid: ‘Heil Franz Joseph.’ He copied her gesture and he, too, said ‘Heil!’
Charlotte spoke to them.
‘Would it please you tomorrow morning to start the day with a ridethrough the forest?’
‘I should like it of all things,’ said Stafford Nye.
‘And you, child?’
‘Yes, I too.’
‘Very good then. It shall be arranged. Good night to you both. I am gladto welcome you here. Franz Joseph–give me your arm. We will go into theChinese Boudoir. We have much to discuss, and you will have to leave ingood time tomorrow morning.’
The menservants escorted Renata and Stafford Nye to their apartments.
Nye hesitated for a moment on the threshold. Would it be possible forthem to have a word or two now? He decided67 against it. As long as thecastle walls surrounded them it was well to be careful. One never knew–each room might be wired with microphones.
Sooner or later, though, he had to ask questions. Certain things arouseda new and sinister68 apprehension69 in his mind. He was being persuaded, in-veigled into something. But what? And whose doing was it?
The bedrooms were handsome, yet oppressive. The rich hangings ofsatin and velvets, some of them antique, gave out a faint perfume of de-cay, tempered by spices. He wondered how often Renata had stayed herebefore.
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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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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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geographical
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| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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Moslem
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| n.回教徒，穆罕默德信徒；adj.回教徒的，回教的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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geographically
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| adv.地理学上，在地理上，地理方面 | |
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fin
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| n.鳍；(飞机的)安定翼 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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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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ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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rococo
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| n.洛可可；adj.过分修饰的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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creased
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 皱皱巴巴 | |
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appraising
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| v.估价( appraise的现在分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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arthritis
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| n.关节炎 | |
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rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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blatant
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| adj.厚颜无耻的；显眼的；炫耀的 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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bodyguard
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| n.护卫，保镖 | |
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naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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permeated
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| 弥漫( permeate的过去式和过去分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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sheathed
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| adj.雕塑像下半身包在鞘中的；覆盖的；铠装的；装鞘了的v.将（刀、剑等）插入鞘( sheathe的过去式和过去分词 )；包，覆盖 | |
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corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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elite
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| n.精英阶层；实力集团；adj.杰出的，卓越的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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63
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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fascist
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| adj.法西斯主义的；法西斯党的；n.法西斯主义者，法西斯分子 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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