Chapter Three Setting
Definition of Setting
Setting refers to the place and time，the physical and sometimes spiritual background in which the action of a story takes place.
Elements of Setting
Setting in fiction comprises such elements as ①time or period in which the story happens，for example，John Galsworthy’s “Told by the Headmaster” happened during World War I; ②geographical location (topography，scenery，houses，rooms，windows，doors，etc.)，the house in “The Falling of the House of Usher” by Edgar Allen Poe is a case in point; ③the occupation and daily manners of living of the characters，e. g. in “The Last Leaf” by O. Henry，both Sue and Johnsy are poor painters，who have to make a living by painting; ④the climatic conditions，e.g. the thunderstorm in “The Storm” by Kate Chopin; ⑤the general environment of the characters (religious，mental，moral，social and emotional conditions of the characters)，e. g. in “A Rose for Emily” by William Faulkner，the South of the United States undergoes dramatic changes after the Civil War，but Emily Grierson reacts eccentrically against the loss of former social system and the loss of love because of her family education.
Types of Setting
Some stories happen outdoors in natural environment，while others happens indoors in man-made environment.
◆ Natural Environment
Nature plays a crucial role in directing and redirecting the lives of the characters. While a river may mean a new life and freedom in Mark Twain’s “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn”，it may also mean danger and death in “The One Thousand Dozen” by Jack London. Wilderness in “Love of Life” by Jack London challenges the will of the character，but in contrast，wilderness in “Yellow Woman” by Leslie Silko provides a quiet setting for a romantic coincidence. A lake may be a scene of killing as it is in “Haircut” by Ring Lardner; however，it can also be the location where one person saves another as the case in “The Horse Dealer’s Daughter” by D. H. Lawrence.
◆ Man-made Environment
Man-made things can also reflect the temperament of the people who made them or used them. The houses in “The Falling of the House of Usher” and “A Rose for Emily” stand for confinement and isolation for both Usher and Emily. The café in “A Clean，Well-Lighted Place” by Ernest Hemingway means differently from the bar because the former helps to save the dignity of the old man. A window may show a view of bright future as in “The Story of An Hour” by Kate Chopin or as a view of death as in “The Open Window” by Saki. A well-decorated room may serve to show the wealth and taste of the inhabitants as in “A Cup of Tea” by Katherine Mansfield，or to cover or conceal something bad as in “The Furnished Room” by O. Henry.
Functions of Setting
Setting can play several roles in fiction. Generally speaking，setting is of the following specific functions.
◆ Setting—a background for action
This function is the commonest one of setting because all stories must have taken place some where，some time. It may happen on sea as in “Rain” by W. Somerset Maugham or on land as in “The Sun Dog Trail” by Jack London; it may happen on a bridge as in “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” by Ambrose Bierce or in a room as in “The Furnished Room”.
◆ Setting—a means of evoking proper atmosphere
In such stories，setting guide the reader to feel whatsoever the author may want him to feel. For example，the old，dark lantern-lit house in “The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allen Poe evokes in readers a sense of uneasiness，which helps to build the effectiveness of the story.
◆ Setting—a means of revealing characters
Setting is often found closely associated with the protagonists or antagonists，so much so that it carries strong symbolic meanings. The “big，squarish frame house”once “White，decorated with cupolas and spires and scrolled balconies in the heavily lightsome style of the seventies” vividly shows the character of its owner in “A Rose for Emily”.
◆ Setting—antagonist
The forces of nature often challenge the courage and will of our human beings，as is the case with the unnamed protagonist in “To Build a Fire” by Jack London. The extreme cold in Yukon，Canada at first only makes the hero feel uncomfortable，then the accidental falling into the water under the ice and snow puts the hero into danger. He starts to worry about the loss of his toes，when he fails to build a fire again，he is aware of the loss of his hands and feet，and the tremendous cold ultimately claims his life.
◆ Setting—a means of reinforcing theme
In some stories，setting is closely bound with theme. In “Cat in the Rain” by Ernest Hemingway，the long description of the environment creates a cold，unfriendly and depressive atmosphere. Such setting—a rainy day，an Italian hotel，an empty square，a cat—foreshadows the state of marriage of the American couple—the indifference and superiority of the husband and the loneliness and inferiority of the wife.
Related Terms
◆ Local Color Writing
When setting dominates，or when a piece of fiction is written largely to present the manners and customs of a locality，the writing is called local color writing or Regionalism and the writer is called a regional writer. William Faulkner is known as a regional writer，because he sets most of his stories in his native Mississippi.
◆ Atmosphere
The atmosphere of the stories is the pervasive，general feeling，generated by a number of factors (setting，character，action and style) that are characteristic of a particular story. In “The Horse Dealer’s Daughter”，the “desolate breakfast table”，the “dreary dining room”，the “gray，wintry day，with saddened，dark green fields”and the animalized brothers who are incapable of love，respect and affection for the heroine—Mabel，which justify her proceeding actions.
Story One The Black Cat (1843)
About the Author
Edgar Allan Poe（1809—1849）was an American author，poet，editor and literary critic，considered part of the American Romantic Movement. Best known for his tales of mystery and the macabre，Poe was one of the earliest American practitioners of the short story and is considered the inventor of the detective fiction genre. He is further credited with contributing to the emerging genre of science fiction. He was the first well-known American writer to try to earn a living through writing alone，resulting in a financially difficult life and career. Till now，Poe still remained the most controversial and most misunderstood literary figure in the history of American literature. Emerson dismissed him in three words “the jingle man” (打油诗人)，Mark Twain declared his prose to be unreadable. And Whitman was the only famous literary figure present at the Poe Memorial Ceremony in 1875. Today，Poe’s particular power has ensured his position among the greatest writers of the world.
Tips for Reading
“The Black Cat” is a study of the psychology of guilt，often paired in analysis with Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart”. In both，a murderer carefully conceals his crime and believes himself unassailable，but eventually breaks down and reveals himself，impelled by a nagging reminder of his guilt. Poe elicits terror in these stories by enclosing his characters within confined settings that take on Gothic characteristics. The setting，cellar，becomes an instrument of murder. Dark，damp and narrow cellar seems like a grave，which not only serves as a murder spot，but also reflects the protagonist’s distorted psychology. More than any of Poe’s stories，“The Black Cat”illustrates best the capacity of the human mind to observe its own deterioration and the ability of the mind to comment upon its own destruction without being able to objectively halt that deterioration.
The Story
FOR the most wild，yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen，I neither expect nor solicit
belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it，in a case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet，mad am I not—and very surely do I not dream. But to-morrow I die，and to-day I would unburthen my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the world，plainly，succinctly，and without comment，a series of mere household events. In their consequences，these events have terrified—have tortured—have destroyed me. Yet I will not attempt to expound them. To me，they have presented little but Horror—to many they will seem less terrible than baroques . Hereafter，perhaps，some intellect may be found which will reduce my phantasm to the common-place—some intellect more calm，more logical，and far less excitable than my own，which will perceive，in the circumstances I detail with awe，nothing more than an ordinary succession of very natural causes and effects.
From my infancy I was noted for the docility and humanity of my disposition. My tenderness of heart was even so conspicuous as to make me the jest of my companions. I was especially fond of animals，and was indulged by my parents with a great variety of pets. With these I spent most of my time，and never was so happy as when feeding and caressing them. This peculiar of character grew with my growth，and in my manhood，I derived from it one of my principal sources of pleasure. To those who have cherished an affection for a faithful and sagacious dog，I need hardly be at the trouble of explaining the nature or the intensity of the gratification thus derivable. There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute，which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.
I married early，and was happy to find in my wife a disposition not uncongenial with my own. Observing my partiality for domestic pets，she lost no opportunity of procuring those of the most agreeable kind. We had birds，gold fish，a fine dog，rabbits，a small monkey，and a cat.
This latter was a remarkably large and beautiful animal，entirely black，and sagacious to an astonishing degree. In speaking of his intelligence，my wife，who at heart was not a little tinctured with superstition，made frequent allusion to the ancient popular notion，which regarded all black cats as witches in disguise. Not that she was ever serious upon this point—and I mention the matter at all for no better reason than that it happens，just now，to be remembered.
Pluto—this was the cat’s name—was my favorite pet and playmate. I alone fed him，and he attended me wherever I went about the house. It was even with difficulty that I could prevent him from following me through the streets.
Our friendship lasted，in this manner，for several years，during which my general temperament and character—through the instrumentality of the Fiend Intemperance—had (I blush to confess it) experienced a radical alteration for the worse. I grew，day by day，more moody，more irritable，more regardless of the feelings of others. I suffered myself to use intemperate language to my wife At length，I even offered her personal violence. My pets，of course，were made to feel the change in my disposition. I not only neglected，but ill-used them. For Pluto，however，I still retained sufficient regard to restrain me from maltreating him，as I made no scruple of maltreating the rabbits，the monkey，or even the dog，when by accident，or through affection，they came in my way. But my disease grew upon me—for what disease is like Alcohol! —and at length even Pluto，who was now becoming old，and consequently somewhat peevish—even Pluto began to experience the effects of my ill temper.
One night，returning home，much intoxicated，from one of my haunts about town，I fancied that the cat avoided my presence. I seized him; when，in his fright at my violence，he inflicted a slight wound upon my hand with his teeth. The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer. My original soul seemed，at once，to take its flight from my body; and a more than fiendish malevolence，gin-nurtured，thrilled every fibre of my frame. I took from my waistcoat-pocket a pen-knife，opened it，grasped the poor beast by the throat，and deliberately cut one of its eyes from the socket ! I blush，I burn，I shudder，while I pen the damnable atrocity.
When reason returned with the morning—when I had slept off the fumes of the night’s debauch—I experienced a sentiment half of horror，half of remorse，for the crime of which I had been guilty; but it was，at best，a feeble and equivocal feeling，and the soul remained untouched. I again plunged into excess，and soon drowned in wine all memory of the deed.
In the meantime the cat slowly recovered. The socket of the lost eye presented，it is true，a frightful appearance，but he no longer appeared to suffer any pain. He went about the house as usual，but，as might be expected，fled in extreme terror at my approach. I had so much of my old heart left，as to be at first grieved by this evident dislike on the part of a creature which had once so loved me. But this feeling soon gave place to irritation. And then came，as if to my final and irrevocable overthrow，the spirit of PERVERSENESS. Of this spirit philosophy takes no account. Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives，than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart—one of the indivisible primary faculties，or sentiments，which give direction to the character of Man. Who has not，a hundred times，found himself committing a vile or a silly action，for no other reason than because he knows he should not？Have we not a perpetual inclination，in the teeth of our best judgment，to violate that which is Law，merely because we understand it to be such？This spirit of perverseness，I say，came to my final overthrow. It was this unfathomable longing of the soul to vex itself—to offer violence to its own nature—to do wrong for the wrong’s sake only—that urged me to continue and finally to consummate the injury I had inflicted upon the unoffending brute. One morning，in cool blood，I slipped a noose about its neck and hung it to the limb of a tree;—hung it with the tears streaming from my eyes，and with the bitterest remorse at my heart;—hung it because I knew that it had loved me，and because I felt it had given me no reason of offence;—hung it because I knew that in so doing I was committing a sin—a deadly sin that would so jeopardizemy immortal soul as to place it—if such a thing were possible—even beyond the reach of the infinite mercy of the Most Merciful and Most Terrible God.
On the night of the day on which this cruel deed was done，I was aroused from sleep by the cry of fire. The curtains of my bed were in flames. The whole house was blazing. It was with great difficulty that my wife，a servant，and myself，made our escape from the conflagration . The destruction was complete. My entire worldly wealth was swallowed up，and I resigned myself thenceforward to despair.
I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect，between the disaster and the atrocity. But I am detailing a chain of facts—and wish not to leave even a possible link imperfect. On the day succeeding the fire，I visited the ruins. The walls，with one exception，had fallen in. This exception was found in a compartment wall，not very thick，which stood about the middle of the house，and against which had rested the head of my bed. The plastering had here，in great measure，resisted the action of the fire—a fact which I attributed to its having been recently spread. About this wall a dense crowd were collected，and many persons seemed to be examining a particular portion of it with every minute and eager attention. The words “strange!” “singular!” and other similar expressions，excited my curiosity. I approached and saw，as if graven in bas relief upon the white surface，the figure of a gigantic cat. The impression was given with an accuracy truly marvelous. There was a rope about the animal’s neck.
When I first beheld this apparition—for I could scarcely regard it as less—my wonder and my terror were extreme. But at length reflection came to my aid. The cat，I remembered，had been hung in a garden adjacent to the house. Upon the alarm of fire，this garden had been immediately filled by the crowd—by some one of whom the animal must have been cut from the tree and thrown，through an open window，into my chamber. This had probably been done with the view of arousing me from sleep. The falling of other walls had compressed the victim of my cruelty into the substance of the freshly-spread plaster; the lime of which，had then with the flames，and the ammonia from the carcass，accomplished the portraiture as I saw it.
Although I thus readily accounted to my reason，if not altogether to my conscience，for the startling fact just detailed，it did not the less fall to make a deep impression upon my fancy. For months I could not rid myself of the phantasm of the cat; and，during this period，there came back into my spirit a half-sentiment that seemed，but was not，remorse. I went so far as to regret the loss of the animal，and to look about me，among the vile haunts which I now habitually frequented，for another pet of the same species，and of somewhat similar appearance，with which to supply its place.
One night as I sat，half stupefied，in a den of more than infamy，my attention was suddenly drawn to some black object，reposing upon the head of one of the immense hogsheads of Gin，or of Rum，which constituted the chief furniture of the apartment. I had been looking steadily at the top of this hogshead for some minutes，and what now caused me surprise was the fact that I had not sooner perceived the object thereupon. I approached it，and touched it with my hand. It was a black cat—a very large one—fully as large as Pluto，and closely resembling him in every respect but one. Pluto had not a white hair upon any portion of his body; but this cat had a large，although indefinite splotch of white，covering nearly the whole region of the breast.
Upon my touching him，he immediately arose，purred loudly，rubbed against my hand，and appeared delighted with my notice. This，then，was the very creature of which I was in search. I at once offered to purchase it of the landlord; but this person made no claim to it—knew nothing of it—had never seen it before.
I continued my caresses，and，when I prepared to go home，the animal evinced a disposition to accompany me. I permitted it to do so; occasionally stooping and patting it as I proceeded. When it reached the house it domesticated itself at once，and became immediately a great favorite with my wife.
For my own part，I soon found a dislike to it arising within me. This was just the reverse of what I had anticipated; but I know not how or why it was—its evident fondness for myself rather disgusted and annoyed. By slow degrees，these feelings of disgust and annoyance rose into the bitterness of hatred. I avoided the creature; a certain sense of shame，and the remembrance of my former deed of cruelty，preventing me from physically abusing it. I did not，for some weeks，strike，or otherwise violently ill use it; but gradually—very gradually—I came to look upon it with unutterable loathing，and to flee silently from its odious presence，as from the breath of a pestilence.
What added，no doubt，to my hatred of the beast，was the discovery，on the morning after I brought it home，that，like Pluto，it also had been deprived of one of its eyes. This circumstance，however，only endeared it to my wife，who，as I have already said，possessed，in a high degree，that humanity of feeling which had once been my distinguishing trait，and the source of many of my simplest and purest pleasures.
With my aversion to this cat，however，its partiality for myself seemed to increase. It followed my footsteps with a pertinacity which it would be difficult to make the reader comprehend. Whenever I sat，it would crouch beneath my chair，or spring upon my knees，covering me with its loathsome caresses. If I arose to walk it would get between my feet and thus nearly throw me down，or，fastening its long and sharp claws in my dress，clamber，in this manner，to my breast. At such times，although I longed to destroy it with a blow，I was yet withheld from so doing，partly it at by a memory of my former crime，but chiefly—let me confess it at once—by absolute dread of the beast.
This dread was not exactly a dread of physical evil-and yet I should be at a loss how otherwise to define it. I am almost ashamed to own—yes，even in this felon’s cell，I am almost ashamed to own—that the terror and horror with which the animal inspired me，had been heightened by one of the merest chimaeras it would be possible to conceive. My wife had called my attention，more than once，to the character of the mark of white hair，of which I have spoken，and which constituted the sole visible difference between the strange beast and the one I had destroyed. The reader will remember that this mark，although large，had been originally very indefinite; but，by slow degrees—degrees nearly imperceptible，and which for a long time my Reason struggled to reject as fanciful—it had，at length，assumed a rigorous distinctness of outline. It was now the representation of an object that I shudder to name—and for this，above all，I loathed，and dreaded，and would have rid myself of the monster had I dared—it was now，I say，the image of a hideous—of a ghastly thing—of the GALLOWS! —oh，mournful and terrible engine of Horror and of Crime—of Agony and of Death!
And now was I indeed wretched beyond the wretchedness of mere Humanity. And a brute beast—whose fellow I had contemptuously destroyed—a brute beast to work out for me—for me a man，fashioned in the image of the High God—so much of insufferable wo! Alas! neither by day nor by night knew I the blessing of Rest any more! During the former the creature left me no moment alone; and，in the latter，I started，hourly，from dreams of unutterable fear，to find the hot breath of the thing upon my face，and its vast weight—an incarnate Night-Mare that I had no power to shake off—incumbent eternally upon my heart!
Beneath the pressure of torments such as these，the feeble remnant of the good within me succumbed . Evil thoughts became my sole intimates—the darkest and most evil of thoughts. The moodiness of my usual temper increased to hatred of all things and of all mankind; while，from the sudden，frequent，and ungovernable outbursts of a fury to which I now blindly abandoned myself，my uncomplaining wife，alas! was the most usual and the most patient of sufferers.
One day she accompanied me，upon some household errand，into the cellar of the old building which our poverty compelled us to inhabit. The cat followed me down the steep stairs，and，nearly throwing me headlong，exasperated me to madness. Uplifting an axe，and forgetting，in my wrath，the childish dread which had hitherto stayed my hand，I aimed a blow at the animal which，of course，would have proved instantly fatal had it descended as I wished. But this blow was arrested by the hand of my wife. Goaded，by the interference，into a rage more than demoniacal，I withdrew my arm from her grasp and buried the axe in her brain. She fell dead upon the spot，without a groan.
This hideous murder accomplished，I set myself forthwith，and with entire deliberation，to the task of concealing the body. I knew that I could not remove it from the house，either by day or by night，without the risk of being observed by the neighbors. Many projects entered my mind. At one period I thought of cutting the corpse into minute fragments，and destroying them by fire. At another，I resolved to dig a grave for it in the floor of the cellar. Again，I deliberated about casting it in the well in the yard—about packing it in a box，as if merchandize，with the usual arrangements，and so getting a porter to take it from the house. Finally I hit upon what I considered a far better expedient than either of these. I determined to wall it up in the cellar—as the monks of the middle ages are recorded to have walled up their victims.
For a purpose such as this the cellar was well adapted. Its walls were loosely constructed，and had lately been plastered throughout with a rough plaster，which the dampness of the atmosphere had prevented from hardening. Moreover，in one of the walls was a projection，caused by a false chimney，or fireplace，that had been filled up，and made to resemble the rest of the cellar. I made no doubt that I could readily displace the at this point，insert the corpse，and wall the whole up as before，so that no eye could detect anything suspicious.
And in this calculation I was not deceived. By means of a crow-bar I easily dislodged the bricks，and，having carefully deposited the body against the inner wall，I propped it in that position，while，with little trouble，I re-laid the whole structure as it originally stood. Having procured mortar，sand，and hair，with every possible precaution，I prepared a plaster which could not be distinguished from the old，and with this I very carefully went over the new brick-work. When I had finished，I felt satisfied that all was right. The wall did not present the slightest appearance of having been disturbed. The rubbish on the floor was picked up with the minutest care. I looked around triumphantly，and said to myself—“Here at least，then，my labor has not been in vain.”
My next step was to look for the beast which had been the cause of so much wretchedness; for I had，at length，firmly resolved to put it to death. Had I been able to meet with it，at the moment，there could have been no doubt of its fate; but it appeared that the crafty animal had been alarmed at the violence of my previous anger，and forebore to present itself in my present mood. It is impossible to describe，or to imagine，the deep，the blissful sense of relief which the absence of the detested creature occasioned in my bosom. It did not make its appearance during the night—and thus for one night at least，since its introduction into the house，I soundly and tranquilly slept; aye，slept even with the burden of murder upon my soul!
The second and the third day passed，and still my tormentor came not. Once again I breathed as a free-man. The monster，in terror，had fled the premises forever! I should behold it no more! My happiness was supreme! The guilt of my dark deed disturbed me but little. Some few inquiries had been made，but these had been readily answered. Even a search had been instituted—but of course nothing was to be discovered. I looked upon my future felicity as secured.
Upon the fourth day of the assassination，a party of the police came，very unexpectedly，into the house，and proceeded again to make rigorous investigation of the premises. Secure，however，in the inscrutability of my place of concealment，I felt no embarrassment whatever. The officers bade me accompany them in their search. They left no nook or corner unexplored. At length，for the third or fourth time，they descended into the cellar. I quivered not in a muscle. My heart beat calmly as that of one who slumbers in innocence. I walked the cellar from end to end. I folded my arms upon my bosom，and roamed easily to and fro. The police were thoroughly satisfied and prepared to depart. The glee at my heart was too strong to be restrained. I burned to say if but one word，by way of triumph，and to render doubly sure their assurance of my guiltlessness.
“Gentlemen，” I said at last，as the party ascended the steps，“I delight to have allayed your suspicions. I wish you all health，and a little more courtesy. By the bye，gentlemen，this—this is a very well constructed house.” (In the rabid desire to say something easily，I scarcely knew what I uttered at all.)—”I may say an excellently well constructed house. These walls—are you going，gentlemen？—these walls are solidly put together”; and here，through the mere phrenzy of bravado，I rapped heavily，with a cane which I held in my hand，upon that very portion of the brick-work behind which stood the corpse of the wife of my bosom.
But may God shield and deliver me from the fangs of the Arch-Fiend! No sooner had the reverberation of my blows sunk into silence than I was answered by a voice from within the tomb! —by a cry，at first muffled and broken，like the sobbing of a child，and then quickly swelling into one long，loud，and continuous scream，utterly anomalous and inhuman—a howl—a wailing shriek，half of horror and half of triumph，such as might have arisen only out of hell，conjointly from the throats of the damned in their agony and of the demons that exult in the damnation.
Of my own thoughts it is folly to speak. Swooning，I staggered to the opposite wall. For one instant the party upon the stairs remained motionless，through extremity of terror and of awe. In the next，a dozen stout arms were tolling at the wall. It fell bodily. The corpse，already greatly decayed and clotted with gore，stood erect before the eyes of the spectators. Upon its head，with red extended mouth and solitary eye of fire，sat the hideous beast whose craft had seduced me into murder，and whose informing voice had consigned me to the hangman. I had walled the monster up within the tomb!
Questions for Discussion
1．Identify the elements making up the setting of “The Black Cat”.
2．How does the setting reveal the characters’ psychological states？
3．What’s the significance of the description of the cellar？
4．What is the relationship between the confessions of Poe’s guilty narrators and their claims to sanity and reliability？
5．How does Poe use setting as a Gothic element in the story？
Internet Resources
1．https://www. cliffsnotes. com/literature/p/poes-short-stories/summary-and-analysis/the-black-cat
2．http://www.sparknotes.com/lit/poestories/section8.rhtml
3．http://www.poemuseum.org
4．https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The Black Cat (short story)
5．https://poestories.com/read/blackcat
Story Two A New England Nun (1891)
Mary Eleanor Wilkins Freeman (1852—1930) was a prominent American author with different genres of work including children’s stories，poems，and short stories. Freeman is often classified as a “local color writer.” She spent the first fifty years of her life in the rural villages of New England. It was an area suffering severe economic depression. The combination of fatalities from the Civil War (1861—1865)，westward expansion，and industrialization in the cities had taken large numbers of young men from the countryside. What remained was a population largely female，elderly，or both，struggling to earn a living and to keep up appearances. Freeman became famous for her unsentimental and realistic portrayals of these people in her short stories. Freeman began writing stories and verse for children while still a teenager to help support her family and was quickly successful. Her career as a short story writer launched in 1881 when she took first place in a short story contest with her submission “The Ghost Family.” When the supernatural caught her interest，the result was a group of short stories which combined domestic realism with supernaturalism and these have proved very influential. Her best known work was written in the 1880s and 1890s while she lived in Randolph. She produced more than two dozen volumes of published short stories and novels. She is best known for two collections of stories，A Humble Romance and Other Stories (1887) and A New England Nun and Other Stories (1891). Her stories deal mostly with New England life and are among the best of their kind.
Tips for Reading
Freeman’s reputation was built upon her unsentimental and realistic portrayals of the rural nineteenth-century New England life and she wrote most of her best-known short stories in the 1880s and 1890s. Her stories provide a unique snapshot of a particular time and place in American history. This story，“A New England Nun”，set in a small village in nineteenth-century New England，is about a woman who finds，after waiting for her betrothed for fourteen years，that she no longer wants to get married. The small towns of post-Civil War New England were often desolate places. The war itself，combined with urbanization，industrialization，and westward expansion，had taken most of the young able-bodied men out of the region. The remaining population was largely female and elderly. Women like Louisa Ellis，who waited many years for husbands，brothers，fathers and boyfriends to return from the West or other places they had gone to seek jobs，were not uncommon. Joe and Louisa have been engaged for fifteen years，during fourteen of which Joe has been away seeking his fortune in Australia. Louisa has been waiting patiently for his return，never complaining but growing more and more set in her rather narrow，solitary ways as the years have passed. During this time she has，without realizing it，adapted to the solitary life on her own. The world is her home，and everything from her aprons to china has a use and purpose in her every day rhythm. Joe finally comes back but Louisa and Joe feel ill at ease when they are together. A week before the wedding，Louisa happens to overhear a conversation between Joe and Lily and learns that Joe and Lily have developed feelings for each other in the short time that Joe has been back. The next day，when Joe comes to visit，Louisa releases Joe from his promise without letting him know that she is aware of his relationship with Lily. Joe and Louisa then part tenderly，and Louisa is left alone to maintain her present lifestyle.
The Story
It was late in the afternoon，and the light was waning. There was a difference in the look of the tree shadows out in the yard. Somewhere in the distance cows were lowing and a little bell was tinkling; now and then a farm-wagon tilted by，and the dust flew; some blue-shirted laborers with shovels over their shoulders plodded past; little swarms of flies were dancing up and down before the peoples’ faces in the soft air. There seemed to be a gentle stir arising over everything for the mere sake of subsidence—a very premonition of rest and hush and night.
This soft diurnal commotion was over Louisa Ellis also. She had been peacefully sewing at her sitting-room window all the afternoon. Now she quilted her needle carefully into her work，which she folded precisely，and laid in a basket with her thimble and thread and scissors. Louisa Ellis could not remember that ever in her life she had mislaid one of these little feminine appurtenances，which had become，from long use and constant association，a very part of her personality.
Louisa tied a green apron round her waist，and got out a flat straw hat with a green ribbon. Then she went into the garden with a little blue crockery bowl，to pick some currants for her tea. After the currants were picked she sat on the back door-step and stemmed them，collecting the stems carefully in her apron，and afterwards throwing them into the hen-coop. She looked sharply at the grass beside the step to see if any had fallen there.
Louisa was slow and still in her movements; it took her a long time to prepare her tea; but when ready it was set forth with as much grace as if she had been a veritable guest to her own self. The little square table stood exactly in the centre of the kitchen，and was covered with a starched linen cloth whose border pattern of flowers glistened. Louisa had a damask napkin on her tea-tray，where were arranged a cut-glass tumbler full of teaspoons，a silver cream-pitcher，a china sugar-bowl，and one pink china cup and saucer. Louisa used china every day—something which none of her neighbors did. They whispered about it among themselves. Their daily tables were laid with common crockery，their sets of best china stayed in the parlor closet，and Louisa Ellis was no richer nor better bred than they. Still she would use the china. She had for her supper a glass dish full of sugared currants，a plate of little cakes，and one of light white biscuits. Also a leaf or two of lettuce，which she cut up daintily. Louisa was very fond of lettuce，which she raised to perfection in her little garden. She ate quite heartily，though in a delicate，pecking way; it seemed almost surprising that any considerable bulk of the food should vanish.
After tea she filled a plate with nicely baked thin corn-cakes，and carried them out into the back-yard.
“Cæsar!” she called. “Cæsar! Cæsar!”
There was a little rush，and the clank of a chain，and a large yellow-and-white dog appeared at the door of his tiny hut，which was half hidden among the tall grasses and flowers. Louisa patted him and gave him the corn-cakes. Then she returned to the house and washed the tea-things，polishing the china carefully. The twilight had deepened; the chorus of the frogs floated in at the open window wonderfully loud and shrill，and once in a while a long sharp drone from a tree-toad pierced it. Louisa took off her green gingham apron，disclosing a shorter one of pink and white print. She lighted her lamp，and sat down again with her sewing.
In about half an hour Joe Dagget came. She heard his heavy step on the walk，and rose and took off her pink-and-white apron. Under that was still another—white linen with a little cambric edging on the bottom; that was Louisa’s company apron. She never wore it without her calico sewing apron over it unless she had a guest. She had barely folded the pink and white one with methodical haste and laid it in a table-drawer when the door opened and Joe Dagget entered.
He seemed to fill up the whole room. A little yellow canary that had been asleep in his green cage at the south window woke up and fluttered wildly，beating his little yellow wings against the wires. He always did so when Joe Dagget came into the room.
“Good-evening，” said Louisa. She extended her hand with a kind of solemn cordiality.
“Good-evening，Louisa，” returned the man，in a loud voice.
She placed a chair for him，and they sat facing each other，with the table between them. He sat bolt-upright，toeing out his heavy feet squarely，glancing with a good-humored uneasiness around the room. She sat gently erect，folding her slender hands in her white-linen lap.
“Been a pleasant day，” remarked Dagget.
“Real pleasant，” Louisa assented，softly. “Have you been haying？” she asked，after a little while.
“Yes，I’ve been haying all day，down in the ten-acre lot. Pretty hot work.”
“It must be.”
“Yes，it’s pretty hot work in the sun.”
“Is your mother well to-day？”
“Yes，mother’s pretty well.”
“I suppose Lily Dyer’s with her now？”
Dagget colored. “Yes，she’s with her，” he answered，slowly.
He was not very young，but there was a boyish look about his large face. Louisa was not quite as old as he，her face was fairer and smoother，but she gave people the impression of being older.
“I suppose she’s a good deal of help to your mother，” she said，further.
“I guess she is; I don’t know how mother’d get along without her，” said Dagget，with a sort of embarrassed warmth.
“She looks like a real capable girl. She’s pretty-looking too，” remarked Louisa.“Yes，she is pretty fair looking.”
Presently Dagget began fingering the books on the table. There was a square red autograph album，and a Young Lady’s Gift-Book which had belonged to Louisa’s mother. He took them up one after the other and opened them; then laid them down again，the album on the Gift-Book.
Louisa kept eying them with mild uneasiness. Finally she rose and changed the position of the books，putting the album underneath. That was the way they had been arranged in the first place.
Dagget gave an awkward little laugh. “Now what difference did it make which book was on top？” said he.
Louisa looked at him with a deprecating smile. “I always keep them that way，”murmured she.
“You do beat everything，” said Dagget，trying to laugh again. His large face was flushed.
He remained about an hour longer，then rose to take leave. Going out，he stumbled over a rug，and trying to recover himself，hit Louisa’s work-basket on the table，and knocked it on the floor.
He looked at Louisa，then at the rolling spools; he ducked himself awkwardly toward them，but she stopped him. “Never mind，” said she; “I’ll pick them up after you’re gone.”
She spoke with a mild stiffness. Either she was a little disturbed，or his nervousness affected her，and made her seem constrained in her effort to reassure him.
When Joe Dagget was outside he drew in the sweet evening air with a sigh，and felt much as an innocent and perfectly well-intentioned bear might after his exit from a china shop.
Louisa，on her part，felt much as the kind-hearted，long-suffering owner of the china shop might have done after the exit of the bear.
She tied on the pink，then the green apron，picked up all the scattered treasures and replaced them in her work-basket，and straightened the rug. Then she set the lamp on the floor，and began sharply examining the carpet. She even rubbed her fingers over it，and looked at them.
“He’s tracked in a good deal of dust，” she murmured. “I thought he must have.”
Louisa got a dust-pan and brush，and swept Joe Dagget’s track carefully.
If he could have known it，it would have increased his perplexity and uneasiness，although it would not have disturbed his loyalty in the least. He came twice a week to see Louisa Ellis，and every time，sitting there in her delicately sweet room，he felt as if surrounded by a hedge of lace. He was afraid to stir lest he should put a clumsy foot or hand through the fairy web，and he had always the consciousness that Louisa was watching carefully lest he should.
Still the lace and Louisa commanded perforce his perfect respect and patience and loyalty. They were to be married in a month，after a singular courtship which had lasted for a matter of fifteen years. For fourteen out of the fifteen years the two had not once seen each other，and they had seldom exchanged letters. Joe had been all those years in Australia，where he had gone to make his fortune，and where he had stayed until he made it. He would have stayed fifty years if it had taken so long，and come home feeble and tottering，or never come home at all，to marry Louisa.
But the fortune had been made in the fourteen years，and he had come home now to marry the woman who had been patiently and unquestioningly waiting for him all that time.
Shortly after they were engaged he had announced to Louisa his determination to strike out into new fields，and secure a competency before they should be married. She had listened and assented with the sweet serenity which never failed her，not even when her lover set forth on that long and uncertain journey. Joe，buoyed up as he was by his sturdy determination，broke down a little at the last，but Louisa kissed him with a mild blush，and said good-by.
“It won’t be for long，” poor Joe had said，huskily; but it was for fourteen years.
In that length of time much had happened. Louisa’s mother and brother had died，and she was all alone in the world. But greatest happening of all—a subtle happening which both were too simple to understand—Louisa’s feet had turned into a path，smooth maybe under a calm，serene sky，but so straight and unswerving that it could only meet a check at her grave，and so narrow that there was no room for any one at her side.
Louisa’s first emotion when Joe Dagget came home (he had not apprised her of his coming) was consternation，although she would not admit it to herself，and he never dreamed of it. Fifteen years ago she had been in love with him—at least she considered herself to be. Just at that time，gently acquiescing with and falling into the natural drift of girlhood，she had seen marriage ahead as a reasonable feature and a probable desirability of life. She had listened with calm docility to her mother’s views upon the subject. Her mother was remarkable for her cool sense and sweet，even temperament. She talked wisely to her daughter when Joe Dagget presented himself，and Louisa accepted him with no hesitation. He was the first lover she had ever had.
She had been faithful to him all these years. She had never dreamed of the possibility of marrying any one else. Her life，especially for the last seven years，had been full of a pleasant peace，she had never felt discontented nor impatient over her lover’s absence; still she had always looked forward to his return and their marriage as the inevitable conclusion of things. However，she had fallen into a way of placing it so far in the future that it was almost equal to placing it over the boundaries of another life.
When Joe came she had been expecting him，and expecting to be married for fourteen years，but she was as much surprised and taken aback as if she had never thought of it.
Joe’s consternation came later. He eyed Louisa with an instant confirmation of his old admiration. She had changed but little. She still kept her pretty manner and soft grace，and was，he considered，every whit as attractive as ever. As for himself，his stent was done; he had turned his face away from fortune-seeking，and the old winds of romance whistled as loud and sweet as ever through his ears. All the song which he had been wont to hear in them was Louisa; he had for a long time a loyal belief that he heard it still，but finally it seemed to him that although the winds sang always that one song，it had another name. But for Louisa the wind had never more than murmured; now it had gone down，and everything was still. She listened for a little while with half-wistful attention; then she turned quietly away and went to work on her wedding clothes.
Joe had made some extensive and quite magnificent alterations in his house. It was the old homestead; the newly-married couple would live there，for Joe could not desert his mother，who refused to leave her old home. So Louisa must leave hers. Every morning，rising and going about among her neat maidenly possessions，she felt as one looking her last upon the faces of dear friends. It was true that in a measure she could take them with her，but，robbed of their old environments，they would appear in such new guises that they would almost cease to be themselves. Then there were some peculiar features of her happy solitary life which she would probably be obliged to relinquish altogether. Sterner tasks than these graceful but half-needless ones would probably devolve upon her. There would be a large house to care for; there would be company to entertain; there would be Joe’s rigorous and feeble old mother to wait upon; and it would be contrary to all thrifty village traditions for her to keep more than one servant. Louisa had a little still，and she used to occupy herself pleasantly in summer weather with distilling the sweet and aromatic essences from roses and peppermint and spearmint . By-and-by her still must be laid away. Her store of essences was already considerable，and there would be no time for her to distil for the mere pleasure of it. Then Joe’s mother would think it foolishness; she had already hinted her opinion in the matter. Louisa dearly loved to sew a linen seam，not always for use，but for the simple，mild pleasure which she took in it. She would have been loath to confess how more than once she had ripped a seam for the mere delight of sewing it together again. Sitting at her window during long sweet afternoons，drawing her needle gently through the dainty fabric，she was peace itself. But there was small chance of such foolish comfort in the future. Joe’s mother，domineering，shrewd old matron that she was even in her old age，and very likely even Joe himself，with his honest masculine rudeness，would laugh and frown down all these pretty but senseless old maiden ways.
Louisa had almost the enthusiasm of an artist over the mere order and cleanliness of her solitary home. She had throbs of genuine triumph at the sight of the window-panes which she had polished until they shone like jewels. She gloated gently over her orderly bureau-drawers，with their exquisitely folded contents redolent with lavender and sweet clover and very purity. Could she be sure of the endurance of even this？She had visions，so startling that she half repudiated them as indelicate，of coarse masculine belongings strewn about in endless litter; of dust and disorder arising necessarily from a coarse masculine presence in the midst of all this delicate harmony.
Among her forebodings of disturbance，not the least was with regard to Cæsar. Cæsar was a veritable hermit of a dog. For the greater part of his life he had dwelt in his secluded hut，shut out from the society of his kind and all innocent canine joys. Never had Cæsar since his early youth watched at a woodchuck’s hole; never had he known the delights of a stray bone at a neighbor’s kitchen door. And it was all on account of a sin committed when hardly out of his puppyhood. No one knew the possible depth of remorse of which this mild-visaged，altogether innocent-looking old dog might be capable; but whether or not he had encountered remorse，he had encountered a full measure of righteous retribution. Old Cæsar seldom lifted up his voice in a growl or a bark; he was fat and sleepy; there were yellow rings which looked like spectacles around his dim old eyes; but there was a neighbor who bore on his hand the imprint of several of Cæsar’s sharp white youthful teeth，and for that he had lived at the end of a chain，all alone in a little hut，for fourteen years. The neighbor，who was choleric and smarting with the pain of his wound，had demanded either Cæsar’s death or complete ostracism. So Louisa’s brother，to whom the dog had belonged，had built him his little kennel and tied him up. It was now fourteen years since，in a flood of youthful spirits，he had inflicted that memorable bite，and with the exception of short excursions，always at the end of the chain，under the strict guardianship of his master or Louisa，the old dog had remained a close prisoner. It is doubtful if，with his limited ambition，he took much pride in the fact，but it is certain that he was possessed of considerable cheap fame. He was regarded by all the children in the village and by many adults as a very monster of ferocity. St. George’s dragon could hardly have surpassed in evil repute Louisa Ellis’s old yellow dog. Mothers charged their children with solemn emphasis not to go too near to him，and the children listened and believed greedily，with a fascinated appetite for terror，and ran by Louisa’s house stealthily，with many sidelong and backward glances at the terrible dog. If perchance he sounded a hoarse bark，there was a panic. Wayfarers chancing into Louisa’s yard eyed him with respect，and inquired if the chain were stout. Cæsar at large might have seemed a very ordinary dog，and excited no comment whatever; chained，his reputation overshadowed him，so that he lost his own proper outlines and looked darkly vague and enormous. Joe Dagget，however，with his good-humored sense and shrewdness，saw him as he was. He strode valiantly up to him and patted him on the head，in spite of Louisa’s soft clamor of warning，and even attempted to set him loose. Louisa grew so alarmed that he desisted，but kept announcing his opinion in the matter quite forcibly at intervals.“There ain’t a better-natured dog in town，” he would say，“and it’s down-right cruel to keep him tied up there. Some day I’m going to take him out.”
Louisa had very little hope that he would not，one of these days，when their interests and possessions should be more completely fused in one. She pictured to herself Cæsar on the rampage through the quiet and unguarded village. She saw innocent children bleeding in his path. She was herself very fond of the old dog，because he had belonged to her dead brother，and he was always very gentle with her; still she had great faith in his ferocity. She always warned people not to go too near him. She fed him on ascetic fare of corn-mush and cakes，and never fired his dangerous temper with heating and sanguinary diet of flesh and bones. Louisa looked at the old dog munching his simple fare，and thought of her approaching marriage and trembled. Still no anticipation of disorder and confusion in lieu of sweet peace and harmony，no forebodings of Cæsar on the rampage，no wild fluttering of her little yellow canary，were sufficient to turn her a hair’s-breadth. Joe Dagget had been fond of her and working for her all these years. It was not for her，whatever came to pass，to prove untrue and break his heart. She put the exquisite little stitches into her wedding-garments，and the time went on until it was only a week before her wedding-day. It was a Tuesday evening，and the wedding was to be a week from Wednesday.
There was a full moon that night. About nine o’clock Louisa strolled down the road a little way. There were harvest-fields on either hand，bordered by low stonewalls. Luxuriant clumps of bushes grew beside the wall，and trees—wild cherry and old apple-trees—at intervals. Presently Louisa sat down on the wall and looked about her with mildly sorrowful reflectiveness. Tall shrubs of blueberry and meadowsweet，all woven together and tangled with blackberry vines and horse briers，shut her in on either side. She had a little clear space between them. Opposite her，on the other side of the road，was a spreading tree; the moon shone between its boughs，and the leaves twinkled like silver. The road was bespread with a beautiful shifting dapple of silver and shadow; the air was full of a mysterious sweetness. “I wonder if it’s wild grapes？” murmured Louisa. She sat there some time. She was just thinking of rising，when she heard footsteps and low voices，and remained quiet. It was a lonely place，and she felt a little timid. She thought she would keep still in the shadow and let the persons，whoever they might be，pass her.
But just before they reached her the voices ceased，and the footsteps. She understood that their owners had also found seats upon the stone wall. She was wondering if she could not steal away unobserved，when the voice broke the stillness. It was Joe Dagget’s. She sat still and listened.
The voice was announced by a loud sigh，which was as familiar as itself.“Well，” said Dagget，“you’ve made up your mind，then，I suppose？”
“Yes，” returned another voice，“I’m going day after to-morrow.”
“That’s Lily Dyer，” thought Louisa to herself. The voice embodied itself in her mind. She saw a girl tall and full-figured，with a firm，fair face，looking fairer and firmer in the moonlight，her strong yellow hair braided in a close knot. A girl full of a calm rustic strength and bloom，with a masterful way which might have beseemed a princess. Lily Dyer was a favorite with the village folk; she had just the qualities to arouse the admiration. She was good and handsome and smart. Louisa had often heard her praises sounded.
“Well，” said Joe Dagget，“I ain’t got a word to say.”
“I don’t know what you could say，” returned Lily Dyer.
“Not a word to say，” repeated Joe，drawing out the words heavily. Then there was a silence. “I ain’t sorry，” he began at last，“that that happened yesterday—that we kind of let on how we felt to each other. I guess it’s just as well we knew. Of course I can’t do anything any different. I’m going right on an’ get married next week. I ain’t going back on a woman that’s waited for me fourteen years，an’ break her heart.”
“If you should jilt her to-morrow，I wouldn’t have you，” spoke up the girl，with sudden vehemence.
“Well，I ain’t going to give you the chance，” said he，“but I don’t believe you would，either.”
“You’d see I wouldn’t. Honor’s honor，an’ right’s right. An’ I’d never think anything of any man that went against ‘em for me or any other girl; you’d find that out，Joe Dagget.”
“Well，you’ll find out fast enough that I ain’t going against ‘em for you or any other girl，” returned he. Their voices sounded almost as if they were angry with each other. Louisa was listening eagerly.
“I’m sorry you feel as if you must go away，” said Joe，“but I don’t know but it’s best.”
“Of course it’s best. I hope you and I have got common-sense.”
“Well，I suppose you’re right.” Suddenly Joe’s voice got an undertone of tenderness. “Say，Lily，” said he，“I’ll get along well enough myself，but I can’t bear to think—You don’t suppose you’re going to fret much over it？”
“I guess you’ll find out I sha’n’t fret much over a married man.”
“Well，I hope you won’t—I hope you won’t，Lily. God knows I do. And—I hope—one of these days—you’ll—come across somebody else—”
“I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t.” Suddenly her tone changed. She spoke in a sweet，clear voice，so loud that she could have been heard across the street.“No，Joe Dagget，” said she，“I’ll never marry any other man as long as I live. I’ve got good sense，an’ I ain’t going to break my heart nor make a fool of myself; but I’m never going to be married，you can be sure of that. I ain’t that sort of a girl to feel this way twice.”
Louisa heard an exclamation and a soft commotion behind the bushes; then Lily spoke again—the voice sounded as if she had risen. “This must be put a stop to，”said she. “We’ve stayed here long enough. I’m going home.”
Louisa sat there in a daze，listening to their retreating steps. After a while she got up and slunk softly home herself. The next day she did her housework methodically; that was as much a matter of course as breathing; but she did not sew on her wedding-clothes. She sat at her window and meditated. In the evening Joe came. Louisa Ellis had never known that she had any diplomacy in her，but when she came to look for it that night she found it，although meek of its kind，among her little feminine weapons. Even now she could hardly believe that she had heard aright，and that she would not do Joe a terrible injury should she break her troth-plight . She wanted to sound him without betraying too soon her own inclinations in the matter. She did it successfully，and they finally came to an understanding; but it was a difficult thing，for he was as afraid of betraying himself as she.
She never mentioned Lily Dyer. She simply said that while she had no cause of complaint against him，she had lived so long in one way that she shrank from making a change.
“Well，I never shrank，Louisa，” said Dagget，“I’m going to be honest enough to say that I think maybe it’s better this way; but if you’d wanted to keep on，I’d have stuck to you till my dying day. I hope you know that.”
“Yes，I do.” said she.
That night she and Joe parted more tenderly than they had done for a long time. Standing in the door，holding each other’s hands，a last great wave of regretful memory swept over them.
“Well，this ain’t the way we’ve thought it was all going to end，is it，Louisa？”said Joe.
She shook her head. There was a little quiver on her placid face.
“You let me know if there’s ever anything I can do for you，” said he. “I ain’t ever going to forget you，Louisa.” Then he kissed her，and went down the path.
Louisa，all alone by herself that night，wept a little，she hardly knew why; but the next morning，on waking，she felt like a queen who，after fearing lest her domain be wrested away from her，sees it firmly insured in her possession.
Now the tall weeds and grasses might cluster around Cæsar’s little hermit hut，the snow might fall on its roof year in and year out，but he never would go on a rampage through the unguarded village. Now the little canary might turn itself into a peaceful yellow ball night after night，and have no need to wake and flutter with wild terror against its bars. Louisa could sew linen seams，and distil roses，and dust and polish and fold away in lavender，as long as she listed. That afternoon she sat with her needle-work at the window，and felt fairly steeped in peace. Lily Dyer，tall and erect and blooming，went past; but she felt no qualm. If Louisa Ellis had sold her birthright she did not know it，the taste of the pottage was so delicious，and had been her sole satisfaction for so long. Serenity and placid narrowness had become to her as the birthright itself. She gazed ahead through a long reach of future days strung together like pearls in a rosary，every one like the others，and all smooth and flawless and innocent，and her heart went up in thankfulness. Outside was the fervid summer afternoon; the air was filled with the sounds of the busy harvest of men and birds and bees; there were halloos，metallic clatterings，sweet calls，and long hummings. Louisa sat，prayerfully numbering her days，like an uncloistered nun.
Questions for Discussion
1．Please find out the historical background of the story.
2．How’s Louisa’s daily life and what are the reasons of her solitary life？
3．What is the significance of the social background as setting in understanding the story？
4．What’s the symbolic meaning of Caesar，Louisa’s dog？
5．What do you comment on Louisa’s choice to be a spinster？
Internet Resources
1．http://www.bookrags.com/studyguide-newenglandnun/themes.html
2．https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A New England Nun#Plot summary
3．http://public.wsu.edu/～campbelld/amlit/nenun.html
4．http://www. encyclopedia. com/education/news-wires-white-papers-and-books/new-england-nun
5．http://www.123helpme.com/search.asp？text =A+New+England+Nun
solicit：索求。
unburthen：释放。
succinctly：简洁地。
baroques：巴洛克式的，巴洛克风格的。17世纪和18世纪早期流行于欧洲的一种设计繁复的建筑和艺术风格。
phantasm：幻想，幻觉。
intemperate：无节制的;放纵的。
scruple：良心上的不安;顾虑，顾忌。
intoxicated：喝醉的，极其兴奋的。
fiendish：残酷的。
socket：眼窝。
debauch：堕落，败坏。
unfathomable：难以理解的。
vex：使烦恼;使苦恼;使生气。
consummate：使完成;使完美。
noose：套索;绞刑。
jeopardize：危及，损害。
conflagration：大火（灾）。
compartment：隔间。
hogsheads：大桶;猪头桶。
aversion：厌恶;讨厌的人或东西。
pertinacity：执拗，顽固。
chimaeras：幻想。
incarnate：具体化。
succumbed：屈从；不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）。
demoniacal：着魔的人，狂暴者。
rabid：狂热的;狂暴的；疯狂的。
phrenzy：患狂躁症的人。
stout：强壮的。
gore：（尤指在暴力情况下）伤口流出的血，凝固的血。
consign：把……置于（不快的）境地。
subsidence：（地面）下沉，沉陷。
premonition：预感，预兆。
diurnal：每日的。
commotion：骚乱，混乱。
appurtenance：附件，附属物。
damask：缎子，锦缎。
methodical：有条不紊的。
bolt-upright：竖直的。
depreciating：轻视的，贬低的。
consternation：惊愕，惊恐，惊慌失措。
acquiescing：默认，默许。
docility：温顺，驯服。
half-wistful：解开死结，解决问题。
aromatic：美国西南部印第安部落阿帕奇人从杀死的敌人头上剥下带发的头皮作为战利品，并奏乐欢唱胜利。
peppermint：薄荷。
spearmint：留兰香，绿薄荷。
repudiate：拒绝接受;正式否认。
foreboding：（对不祥之事的）预感，预知。
mild-visaged：温和的面容。
excursions：短途旅行;远足。
clamor：喧哗，喧闹。
rampage：乱跳。
meadowsweet：绣线菊属的灌木。
brier：荆棘，野蔷薇。
troth-plight：订婚。
uncloistered：未出家的;未与世隔绝的。
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