After sketching7 the poetry we cannot do less than give the profile of the poet. Canalis is a short, spare man, with an air of good-breeding, a dark-complexioned, moon-shaped face, and a rather mean head like that of a man who has more vanity than pride. He loves luxury, rank, and splendor8. Money is of more importance to him than to most men. Proud of his birth, even more than of his talent, he destroys the value of his ancestors by making too much of them in the present day, — after all, the Canalis are not Navarreins, nor Cadignans, nor Grandlieus. Nature, however, helps him out in his pretensions9. He has those eyes of Eastern effulgence11 which we demand in a poet, a delicate charm of manner, and a vibrant12 voice; yet a taint13 of natural charlatanism14 destroys the effect of nearly all these advantages; he is a born comedian15. If he puts forward his well-shaped foot, it is because the attitude has become a habit; if he uses exclamatory terms they are part of himself; if he poses with high dramatic action he has made that deportment his second nature. Such defects as these are not incompatible16 with a general benevolence17 and a certain quality of errant and purely18 ideal chivalry19, which distinguishes the paladin from the knight20. Canalis has not devotion enough for a Don Quixote, but he has too much elevation21 of thought not to put himself on the nobler side of questions and things. His poetry, which takes the town by storm on all profitable occasions, really injures the man as a poet; for he is not without mind, but his talent prevents him from developing it; he is overweighted by his reputation, and is always aiming to make himself appear greater than he has the credit of being. Thus, as often happens, the man is entirely22 out of keeping with the products of his thought. The author of these naive23, caressing24, tender little lyrics25, these calm idylls pure and cold as the surface of a lake, these verses so essentially26 feminine, is an ambitious little creature in a tightly buttoned frock-coat, with the air of a diplomat27 seeking political influence, smelling of the musk28 of aristocracy, full of pretension10, thirsting for money, already spoiled by success in two directions, and wearing the double wreath of myrtle and of laurel. A government situation worth eight thousand francs, three thousand francs’ annuity29 from the literary fund, two thousand from the Academy, three thousand more from the paternal30 estate (less the taxes and the cost of keeping it in order) — a total fixed31 income of fifteen thousand francs, plus the ten thousand bought in, one year with another, by his poetry; in all twenty-five thousand francs — this for Modeste’s hero was so precarious32 and insufficient33 an income that he usually spent five or six thousand francs more every year; but the king’s privy34 purse and the secret funds of the foreign office had hitherto supplied the deficit35. He wrote a hymn36 for the king’s coronation which earned him a whole silver service — having refused a sum of money on the ground that a Canalis owed his duty to his sovereign.
But about this time Canalis had, as the journalists say, exhausted37 his budget. He felt himself unable to invent any new form of poetry; his lyre did not have seven strings38, it had one; and having played on that one string so long, the public allowed him no other alternative but to hang himself with it, or to hold his tongue. De Marsay, who did not like Canalis, made a remark whose poisoned shaft39 touched the poet to the quick of his vanity. “Canalis,” he said, “always reminds me of that brave man whom Frederic the Great called up and commended after a battle because his trumpet40 had never ceased tooting its one little tune41.” Canalis’s ambition was to enter political life, and he made capital of a journey he had taken to Madrid as secretary to the embassy of the Duc de Chaulieu, though it was really made, according to Parisian gossip, in the capacity of “attache to the duchess.” How many times a sarcasm42 or a single speech has decided43 the whole course of a man’s life. Colla, the late president of the Cisalpine republic, and the best lawyer in Piedmont, was told by a friend when he was forty years of age that he knew nothing of botany. He was piqued44, became a second Jussieu, cultivated flowers, and compiled and published “The Flora45 of Piedmont,” in Latin, a labor46 of ten years. “I’ll master De Marsay some of these days!” thought the crushed poet; “after all, Canning and Chateaubriand are both in politics.”
Canalis would gladly have brought forth47 some great political poem, but he was afraid of the French press, whose criticisms are savage48 upon any writer who takes four alexandrines to express one idea. Of all the poets of our day only three, Hugo, Theophile Gautier, and De Vigny, have been able to win the double glory of poet and prose-writer, like Racine and Voltaire, Moliere, and Rabelais — a rare distinction in the literature of France, which ought to give a man a right to the crowning title of poet.
So then, the bard49 of the faubourg Saint–Germain was doing a wise thing in trying to house his little chariot under the protecting roof of the present government. When he became president of the court of Claims at the foreign office, he stood in need of a secretary — a friend who could take his place in various ways; cook up his interests with publishers, see to his glory in the newspapers, help him if need be in politics — in short, a cat’s paw and satellite. In Paris many men of celebrity50 in art, science, and literature have one or more train-bearers, captains of the guard, chamberlains as it were, who live in the sunshine of their presence — aides-decamp entrusted51 with delicate missions, allowing themselves to be compromised if necessary; workers round the pedestal of the idol52; not exactly his servants, nor yet his equals; bold in his defence, first in the breach53, covering all retreats, busy with his business, and devoted54 to him just so long as their illusions last, or until the moment when they have got all they wanted. Some of these satellites perceive the ingratitude55 of their great man; others feel that they are simply made tools of; many weary of the life; very few remain contented56 with that sweet equality of feeling and sentiment which is the only reward that should be looked for in an intimacy57 with a superior man — a reward that contented Ali when Mohammed raised him to himself.
Many of these men, misled by vanity, think themselves quite as capable as their patron. Pure devotion, such as Modeste conceived it, without money and without price, and more especially without hope, is rare. Nevertheless there are Mennevals to be found, more perhaps in Paris than elsewhere, men who value a life in the background with its peaceful toil58; these are the wandering Benedictines of our social world, which offers them no other monastery59. These brave, meek60 hearts live, by their actions and in their hidden lives, the poetry that poets utter. They are poets themselves in soul, in tenderness, in their lonely vigils and meditations61 — as truly poets as others of the name on paper, who fatten62 in the fields of literature at so much a verse; like Lord Byron, like all who live, alas63, by ink, the Hippocrene water of today, for want of a better.
Attracted by the fame of Canalis, also by the prospect64 of political interest, and advised thereto by Madame d’Espard, who acted in the matter for the Duchesse de Chaulieu, a young lawyer of the court of Claims became secretary and confidential65 friend of the poet, who welcomed and petted him very much as a broker66 caresses67 his first dabbler68 in the funds. The beginning of this companionship bore a very fair resemblance to friendship. The young man had already held the same relation to a minister, who went out of office in 1827, taking care before he did so to appoint his young secretary to a place in the foreign office. Ernest de La Briere, then about twenty-seven years of age, was decorated with the Legion of honor but was without other means than his salary; he was accustomed to the management of business and had learned a good deal of life during his four years in a minister’s cabinet. Kindly69, amiable70, and over-modest, with a heart full of pure and sound feelings, he was averse71 to putting himself in the foreground. He loved his country, and wished to serve her, but notoriety abashed72 him. To him the place of secretary to a Napoleon was far more desirable than that of the minister himself. As soon as he became the friend and secretary of Canalis he did a great amount of labor for him, but by the end of eighteen months he had learned to understand the barrenness of a nature that was poetic73 through literary expression only. The truth of the old proverb, “The cowl doesn’t make the monk,” is eminently74 shown in literature. It is extremely rare to find among literary men a nature and a talent that are in perfect accord. The faculties75 are not the man himself. This disconnection, whose phenomena76 are amazing, proceeds from an unexplored, possibly an unexplorable mystery. The brain and its products of all kinds (for in art the hand of man is a continuation of his brain) are a world apart, which flourishes beneath the cranium in absolute independence of sentiments, feelings, and all that is called virtue77, the virtue of citizens, fathers, and private life. This, however true, is not absolutely so; nothing is absolutely true of man. It is certain that a debauched man will dissipate his talent, that a drunkard will waste it in libations; while, on the other hand, no man can give himself talent by wholesome78 living: nevertheless, it is all but proved that Virgil, the painter of love, never loved a Dido, and that Rousseau, the model citizen, had enough pride to had furnished forth an aristocracy. On the other hand Raphael and Michael Angelo do present the glorious conjunction of genius with the lines of character. Talent in men is therefore, in all moral points, very much what beauty is in women, — simply a promise. Let us, therefore, doubly admire the man in whom both heart and character equal the perfection of his genius.
When Ernest discovered within his poet an ambitious egoist, the worst species of egoist (for there are some amiable forms of the vice), he felt a delicacy79 in leaving him. Honest natures cannot easily break the ties that bind80 them, especially if they have tied them voluntarily. The secretary was therefore still living in domestic relations with the poet when Modeste’s letter arrived — in such relations, be it said, as involved a perpetual sacrifice of his feelings. La Briere admitted the frankness with which Canalis had laid himself bare before him. Moreover, the defects of the man, who will always be considered a great poet during his lifetime and flattered as Martmontel was flattered, were only the wrong side of his brilliant qualities. Without his vanity and his magniloquence it is possible that he might never have acquired the sonorous81 elocution which is so useful and even necessary an instrument in political life. His cold-bloodedness touched at certain points on rectitude and loyalty82; his ostentation83 had a lining84 of generosity85. Results, we must remember, are to the profit of society; motives86 concern God.
But after the arrival of Modeste’s letter Ernest deceived himself no longer as to Canalis. The pair had just finished breakfast and were talking together in the poet’s study, which was on the ground-floor of a house standing87 back in a court-yard, and looked into a garden.
“There!” exclaimed Canalis, “I was telling Madame de Chaulieu the other day that I ought to bring out another poem; I knew admiration was running short, for I have had no anonymous88 letters for a long time.”
“Is it from an unknown woman?”
“Unknown? yes! — a D’Este, in Havre; evidently a feigned89 name.”
Canalis passed the letter to La Briere. The little poem, with all its hidden enthusiasms, in short, poor Modeste’s heart, was disdainfully handed over, with the gesture of a spoiled dandy.
“It is a fine thing,” said the lawyer, “to have the power to attract such feelings; to force a poor woman to step out of the habits which nature, education, and the world dictate90 to her, to break through conventions. What privileges genius wins! A letter such as this, written by a young girl — a genuine young girl — without hidden meanings, with real enthusiasm —”
“Well, what?” said Canalis.
“Why, a man might suffer as much as Tasso and yet feel recompensed,” cried La Briere.
“So he might, my dear fellow, by a first letter of that kind, and even a second; but how about the thirtieth? And suppose you find out that these young enthusiasts91 are little jades92? Or imagine a poet rushing along the brilliant path in search of her, and finding at the end of it an old Englishwoman sitting on a mile-stone and offering you her hand! Or suppose this post-office angel should really be a rather ugly girl in quest of a husband? Ah, my boy! the effervescence then goes down.”
“I begin to perceive,” said La Briere, smiling, “that there is something poisonous in glory, as there is in certain dazzling flowers.”
“And then,” resumed Canalis, “all these women, even when they are simple-minded, have ideals, and you can’t satisfy them. They never say to themselves that a poet is a vain man, as I am accused of being; they can’t conceive what it is for an author to be at the mercy of a feverish93 excitement, which makes him disagreeable and capricious; they want him always grand, noble; it never occurs to them that genius is a disease, or that Nathan lives with Florine; that D’Arthez is too fat, and Joseph Bridau is too thin; that Beranger limps, and that their own particular deity94 may have the snuffles! A Lucien de Rubempre, poet and cupid, is a phoenix95. And why should I go in search of compliments only to pull the string of a shower-bath of horrid96 looks from some disillusioned97 female?”
“Then the true poet,” said La Briere, “ought to remain hidden, like God, in the centre of his worlds, and be only seen in his own creations.”
“Glory would cost too dear in that case,” answered Canalis. “There is some good in life. As for that letter,” he added, taking a cup of tea, “I assure you that when a noble and beautiful woman loves a poet she does not hide in the corner boxes, like a duchess in love with an actor; she feels that her beauty, her fortune, her name are protection enough, and she dares to say openly, like an epic98 poem: ‘I am the nymph Calypso, enamored of Telemachus.’ Mystery and feigned names are the resources of little minds. For my part I no longer answer masks —”
“I should love a woman who came to seek me,” cried La Briere. “To all you say I reply, my dear Canalis, that it cannot be an ordinary girl who aspires99 to a distinguished100 man; such a girl has too little trust, too much vanity; she is too faint-hearted. Only a star, a —”
“— princess!” cried Canalis, bursting into a shout of laughter; “only a princess can descend101 to him. My dear fellow, that doesn’t happen once in a hundred years. Such a love is like that flower that blossoms every century. Princesses, let me tell you, if they are young, rich, and beautiful, have something else to think of; they are surrounded like rare plants by a hedge of fools, well-bred idiots as hollow as elder-bushes! My dream, alas! the crystal of my dream, garlanded from hence to the Correze with roses — ah! I cannot speak of it — it is in fragments at my feet, and has long been so. No, no, all anonymous letters are begging letters; and what sort of begging? Write yourself to that young woman, if you suppose her young and pretty, and you’ll find out. There is nothing like experience. As for me, I can’t reasonably be expected to love every woman; Apollo, at any rate he of Belvedere, is a delicate consumptive who must take care of his health.”
“But when a woman writes to you in this way her excuse must certainly be in her consciousness that she is able to eclipse in tenderness and beauty every other woman,” said Ernest, “and I should think you might feel some curiosity —”
“Ah,” said Canalis, “permit me, my juvenile102 friend, to abide103 by the beautiful duchess who is all my joy.”
“You are right, you are right!” cried Ernest. However, the young secretary read and re-read Modeste’s letter, striving to guess the mind of its hidden writer.
“There is not the least fine-writing here,” he said, “she does not even talk of your genius; she speaks to your heart. In your place I should feel tempted104 by this fragrance105 of modesty106 — this proposed agreement —”
“Then, sign it!” cried Canalis, laughing; “answer the letter and go to the end of the adventure yourself. You shall tell me the results three months hence — if the affair lasts so long.”
Four days later Modeste received the following letter, written on extremely fine paper, protected by two envelopes, and sealed with the arms of Canalis.
Mademoiselle — The admiration for fine works (allowing that my
books are such) implies something so lofty and sincere as to
protect you from all light jesting, and to justify107 before the
sternest judge the step you have taken in writing to me.
But first I must thank you for the pleasure which such proofs of
sympathy afford, even though we may not merit them — for the maker108
of verses and the true poet are equally certain of the intrinsic
worth of their writings — so readily does self-esteem lend itself
to praise. The best proof of friendship that I can give to an
unknown lady in exchange for a faith which allays109 the sting of
criticism, is to share with her the harvest of my own experience,
even at the risk of dispelling110 her most vivid illusions.
Mademoiselle, the noblest adornment111 of a young girl is the flower
of a pure and saintly and irreproachable112 life. Are you alone in
the world? If you are, there is no need to say more. But if you
have a family, a father or a mother, think of all the sorrow that
might come to them from such a letter as yours addressed to a poet
of whom you know nothing personally. All writers are not angels;
they have many defects. Some are frivolous113, heedless, foppish114,
ambitious, dissipated; and, believe me, no matter how imposing115
innocence116 may be, how chivalrous117 a poet is, you will meet with
many a degenerate118 troubadour in Paris ready to cultivate your
affection only to betray it. By such a man your letter would be
interpreted otherwise than it is by me. He would see a thought
that is not in it, which you, in your innocence, have not
suspected. There are as many natures as there are writers. I am
deeply flattered that you have judged me capable of understanding
you; but had you, perchance, fallen upon a hypocrite, a scoffer119,
one whose books may be melancholy120 but whose life is a perpetual
carnival121, you would have found as the result of your generous
imprudence an evil-minded man, the frequenter of green-rooms,
perhaps a hero of some gay resort. In the bower122 of clematis where
you dream of poets, can you smell the odor of the cigar which
drives all poetry from the manuscript?
But let us look still further. How could the dreamy, solitary123 life
you lead, doubtless by the sea-shore, interest a poet, whose
mission it is to imagine all, and to paint all? What reality can
equal imagination? The young girls of the poets are so ideal that
no living daughter of Eve can compete with them. And now tell me,
what will you gain — you, a young girl, brought up to be the
virtuous124 mother of a family — if you learn to comprehend the
terrible agitations125 of a poet’s life in this dreadful capital,
which may be defined by one sentence — the hell in which men love.
If the desire to brighten the monotonous126 existence of a young girl
thirsting for knowledge has led you to take your pen in hand and
write to me, has not the step itself the appearance of
degradation127? What meaning am I to give to your letter? Are you one
of a rejected caste, and do you seek a friend far away from you?
Or, are you afflicted128 with personal ugliness, yet feeling within
you a noble soul which can give and receive a confidence? Alas,
alas, the conclusion to be drawn129 is grievous. You have said too
much, or too little; you have gone too far, or not far enough.
Either let us drop this correspondence, or, if you continue it,
tell me more than in the letter you have now written me.
But, mademoiselle, if you are young, if you are beautiful, if you
have a home, a family, if in your heart you have the precious
ointment130, the spikenard, to pour out, as did Magdalene on the feet
of Jesus, let yourself be won by a man worthy131 of you; become what
every pure young girl should be — a good woman, the virtuous
mother of a family. A poet is the saddest conquest that a girl can
make; he is full of vanity, full of angles that will sharply wound
a woman’s proper pride, and kill a tenderness which has no
experience of life. The wife of a poet should love him long before
she marries him; she must train herself to the charity of angels,
to their forbearance, to all the virtues132 of motherhood. Such
qualities, mademoiselle, are but germs in a young girl.
Hear the whole truth — do I not owe it to you in return for your
intoxicating133 flattery? If it is a glorious thing to marry a great
renown134, remember also that you must soon discover a superior man
to be, in all that makes a man, like other men. He therefore
poorly realizes the hopes that attach to him as a phoenix. He
becomes like a woman whose beauty is over-praised, and of whom we
say: “I thought her far more lovely.” She has not warranted the
portrait painted by the fairy to whom I owe your letter — the
fairy whose name is Imagination.
Believe me, the qualities of the mind live and thrive only in a
sphere invisible, not in daily life; the wife of a poet bears the
burden; she sees the jewels manufactured, but she never wears
them. If the glory of the position fascinates you, hear me now
when I tell you that its pleasures are soon at an end. You will
suffer when you find so many asperities135 in a nature which, from a
distance, you thought equable, and such coldness at the shining
summit. Moreover, as women never set their feet within the world
of real difficulties, they cease to appreciate what they once
admired as soon as they think they see the inner mechanism136 of it.
I close with a last thought, in which there is no disguised
entreaty137; it is the counsel of a friend. The exchange of souls can
take place only between persons who are resolved to hide nothing
from each other. Would you show yourself for such as you are to an
unknown man? I dare not follow out the consequences of that idea.
Deign138 to accept, mademoiselle, the homage139 which we owe to all
women, even those who are disguised and masked.
So this was the letter she had worn between her flesh and her corset above her palpitating heart throughout one whole day! For this she had postponed140 the reading until the midnight hour when the household slept, waiting for the solemn silence with the eager anxiety of an imagination on fire! For this she had blessed the poet by anticipation141, reading a thousand letters ere she opened one — fancying all things, except this drop of cold water falling upon the vaporous forms of her illusion, and dissolving them as prussic acid dissolves life. What could she do but hide herself in her bed, blow out her candle, bury her face in the sheets and weep?
All this happened during the first days of July. But Modeste presently got up, walked across the room and opened the window. She wanted air. The fragrance of the flowers came to her with the peculiar142 freshness of the odors of the night. The sea, lighted by the moon, sparkled like a mirror. A nightingale was singing in a tree. “Ah, there is the poet!” thought Modeste, whose anger subsided143 at once. Bitter reflections chased each other through her mind. She was cut to the quick; she wished to re-read the letter, and lit a candle; she studied the sentences so carefully studied when written; and ended by hearing the wheezing144 voice of the outer world.
“He is right, and I am wrong,” she said to herself. “But who could ever believe that under the starry145 mantle146 of a poet I should find nothing but one of Moliere’s old men?”
When a woman or young girl is taken in the act, “flagrante delicto,” she conceives a deadly hatred147 to the witness, the author, or the object of her fault. And so the true, the single-minded, the untamed and untamable Modeste conceived within her soul an unquenchable desire to get the better of that righteous spirit, to drive him into some fatal inconsistency, and so return him blow for blow. This girl, this child, as we may call her, so pure, whose head alone had been misguided — partly by her reading, partly by her sister’s sorrows, and more perhaps by the dangerous meditations of her solitary life — was suddenly caught by a ray of sunshine flickering148 across her face. She had been standing for three hours on the shores of the vast sea of Doubt. Nights like these are never forgotten. Modeste walked straight to her little Chinese table, a gift from her father, and wrote a letter dictated149 by the infernal spirit of vengeance150 which palpitates in the hearts of young girls.
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1
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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effulgence
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| n.光辉 | |
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vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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charlatanism
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| n.庸医术，庸医的行为 | |
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comedian
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| n.喜剧演员；滑稽演员 | |
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incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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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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naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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lyrics
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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diplomat
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| n.外交官，外交家；能交际的人，圆滑的人 | |
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musk
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| n.麝香, 能发出麝香的各种各样的植物，香猫 | |
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annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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insufficient
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34
privy
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| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
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35
deficit
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| n.亏空，亏损；赤字，逆差 | |
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36
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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37
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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38
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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39
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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40
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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41
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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42
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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43
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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44
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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45
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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46
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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47
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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48
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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49
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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50
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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51
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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53
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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54
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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55
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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56
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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57
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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58
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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59
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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60
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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61
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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62
fatten
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| v.使肥，变肥 | |
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63
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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64
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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65
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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66
broker
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| n.中间人，经纪人；v.作为中间人来安排 | |
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67
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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68
dabbler
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| n. 戏水者, 业余家, 半玩半认真做的人 | |
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69
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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70
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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71
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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72
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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74
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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75
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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76
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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77
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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78
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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79
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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80
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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81
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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82
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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83
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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84
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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85
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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86
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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87
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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88
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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89
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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90
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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91
enthusiasts
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| n.热心人，热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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92
jades
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| n.玉，翡翠（jade的复数形式）v.（使）疲（jade的第三人称单数形式） | |
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93
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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94
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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95
phoenix
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| n.凤凰，长生(不死)鸟；引申为重生 | |
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96
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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97
disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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98
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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99
aspires
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的第三人称单数 ) | |
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100
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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101
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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102
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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103
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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104
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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105
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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106
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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107
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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108
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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109
allays
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的第三人称单数 ) | |
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110
dispelling
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的现在分词 ) | |
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111
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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112
irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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113
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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114
foppish
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| adj.矫饰的，浮华的 | |
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115
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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116
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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117
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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118
degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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119
scoffer
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| 嘲笑者 | |
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120
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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121
carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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122
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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123
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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124
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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125
agitations
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| （液体等的）摇动( agitation的名词复数 )； 鼓动； 激烈争论； （情绪等的）纷乱 | |
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126
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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127
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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128
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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130
ointment
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| n.药膏，油膏，软膏 | |
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131
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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132
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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133
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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134
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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135
asperities
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| n.粗暴( asperity的名词复数 )；（表面的）粗糙；（环境的）艰苦；严寒的天气 | |
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136
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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137
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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138
deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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139
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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140
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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141
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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142
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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143
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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144
wheezing
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的现在分词 )；哮鸣 | |
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145
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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146
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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147
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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148
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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149
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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150
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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