Monsieur — You are certainly a great poet, and you are something
more — an honest man. After showing such loyal frankness to a
young girl who was stepping to the verge1 of an abyss, have you
enough left to answer without hypocrisy2 or evasion3 the following
question?
Would you have written the letter I now hold in answer to mine,
— would your ideas, your language have been the same — had some
one whispered in your ear (what may prove true), Mademoiselle O.
d’Este M. has six millions and does intend to have a dunce for a
master?
Admit the supposition for a moment. Be with me what you are with
yourself; fear nothing. I am wiser than my twenty years; nothing
that is frank can hurt you in my mind. When I have read your
confidence, if you deign5 to make it, you shall receive from me an
answer to your first letter.
Having admired your talent, often so sublime6, permit me to do
homage7 to your delicacy8 and your integrity, which force me to
remain always,
Your humble9 servant, O. d’Este M.
When Ernest de La Briere had held this letter in his hands for some little time he went to walk along the boulevards, tossed in mind like a tiny vessel10 by a tempest when the wind is blowing from all points of the compass. Most young men, specially11 true Parisians, would have settled the matter in a single phrase, “The girl is a little hussy.” But for a youth whose soul was noble and true, this attempt to put him, as it were, upon his oath, this appeal to truth, had the power to awaken12 the three judges hidden in the conscience of every man. Honor, Truth, and Justice, getting on their feet, cried out in their several ways energetically.
“Ah, my dear Ernest,” said Truth, “you never would have read that lesson to a rich heiress. No, my boy; you would have gone in hot haste to Havre to find out if the girl were handsome, and you would have been very unhappy indeed at her preference for genius; and if you could have tripped up your friend and supplanted13 him in her affections, Mademoiselle d’Este would have been a divinity.”
“What?” cried Justice, “are you not always bemoaning14 yourselves, you penniless men of wit and capacity, that rich girls marry beings whom you wouldn’t take as your servants? You rail against the materialism15 of the century which hastens to join wealth to wealth, and never marries some fine young man with brains and no money to a rich girl. What an outcry you make about it; and yet here is a young woman who revolts against that very spirit of the age, and behold16! the poet replies with a blow at her heart!”
“Rich or poor, young or old, ugly or handsome, the girl is right; she has sense and judgment17, she has tripped you over into the slough18 of self-interest and lets you know it,” cried Honor. “She deserves an answer, a sincere and loyal and frank answer, and, above all, the honest expression of your thought. Examine yourself! sound your heart and purge19 it of its meannesses. What would Moliere’s Alceste say?”
And La Briere, having started from the boulevard Poissoniere, walked so slowly, absorbed in these reflections, that he was more than an hour in reaching the boulevard des Capucines. Then he followed the quays20, which led him to the Cour des Comptes, situated21 in that time close to the Saint–Chapelle. Instead of beginning on the accounts as he should have done, he remained at the mercy of his perplexities.
“One thing is evident,” he said to himself; “she hasn’t six millions; but that’s not the point —”
Six days later, Modeste received the following letter:
Mademoiselle — You are not a D’Este. The name is a feigned22 one to
conceal23 your own. Do I owe the revelations which you solicit24 to a
person who is untruthful about herself? Question for question: Are
you of an illustrious family? or a noble family? or a middle-class
family? Undoubtedly25 ethics26 and morality cannot change; they are
one: but obligations vary in the different states of life. Just as
the sun lights up a scene diversely and produces differences which
we admire, so morality conforms social duty to rank, to position.
The peccadillo27 of a soldier is a crime in a general, and
vice-versa. Observances are not alike in all cases. They are not
the same for the gleaner28 in the field, for the girl who sews at
fifteen sous a day, for the daughter of a petty shopkeeper, for
the young bourgoise, for the child of a rich merchant, for the
heiress of a noble family, for a daughter of the house of Este. A
king must not stoop to pick up a piece of gold, but a laborer29
ought to retrace30 his steps to find ten sous; though both are
equally bound to obey the laws of economy. A daughter of Este, who
is worth six millions, has the right to wear a broad-brimmed hat
and plume31, to flourish her whip, press the flanks of her barb32, and
ride like an amazon decked in gold lace, with a lackey33 behind her,
into the presence of a poet and say: “I love poetry; and I would
fain expiate34 Leonora’s cruelty to Tasso!” but a daughter of the
people would cover herself with ridicule35 by imitating her. To what
class do you belong? Answer sincerely, and I will answer the
question you have put to me.
As I have not the honor of knowing you personally, and yet am
bound to you, in a measure, by the ties of poetic36 communion, I am
unwilling37 to offer any commonplace compliments. Perhaps you have
already won a malicious38 victory by thus embarrassing a maker39 of
books.
The young man was certainly not wanting in the sort of shrewdness which is permissible40 to a man of honor. By return courier he received an answer:—
To Monsieur de Canalis — You grow more and more sensible, my dear
poet. My father is a count. The chief glory of our house was a
cardinal41, in the days when cardinals42 walked the earth by the side
of kings. I am the last of our family, which ends in me; but I
have the necessary quarterings to make my entry into any court or
chapter-house in Europe. We are quite the equals of the Canalis.
You will be so kind as to excuse me from sending you our arms.
Endeavor to answer me as truthfully as I have now answered you. I
await your response to know if I can then sign myself as I do now,
Your servant, O. d’Este M.
“The little mischief43! how she abuses her privileges,” cried La Briere; “but isn’t she frank!”
No young man can be four years private secretary to a cabinet minister, and live in Paris and observe the carrying on of many intrigues44, with perfect impunity45; in fact, the purest soul is more or less intoxicated46 by the heady atmosphere of the imperial city. Happy in the thought that he was not Canalis, our young secretary engaged a place in the mail-coach for Havre, after writing a letter in which he announced that the promised answer would be sent a few days later, — excusing the delay on the ground of the importance of the confession47 and the pressure of his duties at the ministry48.
He took care to get from the director-general of the post-office a note to the postmaster at Havre, requesting secrecy49 and attention to his wishes. Ernest was thus enabled to see Francoise Cochet when she came for the letters, and to follow her without exciting observation. Guided by her, he reached Ingouville and saw Modeste Mignon at the window of the Chalet.
“Well, Francoise?” he heard the young girl say, to which the maid responded —
“Yes, mademoiselle, I have one.”
Struck by the girl’s great beauty, Ernest retraced50 his steps and asked a man on the street the name of the owner of that magnificent estate.
“That?” said the man, nodding to the villa51.
“Yes, my friend.”
“Oh, that belongs to Monsieur Vilquin, the richest shipping52 merchant in Havre, so rich he doesn’t know what he is worth.”
“There is no Cardinal Vilquin that I know of in history,” thought Ernest, as he walked back to Havre for the night mail to Paris. Naturally he questioned the postmaster about the Vilquin family, and learned that it possessed53 an enormous fortune. Monsieur Vilquin had a son and two daughters, one of whom was married to Monsieur Althor, junior. Prudence54 kept La Briere from seeming anxious about the Vilquins; the postmaster was already looking at him slyly.
“Is there there any one staying with them at the present moment,” he asked, “besides the family?”
“The d’Herouville family is there just now. They do talk of a marriage between the young duke and the remaining Mademoiselle Vilquin.”
“Ha!” thought Ernest; “there was a celebrated55 Cardinal d’Herouville under the Valois, and a terrible marshal whom they made a duke in the time of Henri IV.”
Ernest returned to Paris having seen enough of Modeste to dream of her, and to think that, whether she were rich or whether she were poor, if she had a noble soul he would like to make her Madame de La Briere; and so thinking, he resolved to continue the correspondence.
Ah! you poor women of France, try to remain hidden if you can; try to weave the least little romance about your lives in the midst of a civilization which posts in the public streets the hours when the coaches arrive and depart; which counts all letters and stamps them twice over, first with the hour when they are thrown into the boxes, and next with that of their delivery; which numbers the houses, prints the tax of every tenant56 on a metal register at the doors (after verifying its particulars), and will soon possess one vast register of every inch of its territory down to the smallest parcel of land, and the most insignificant57 features of it — a giant work ordained58 by a giant. Try, imprudent young ladies, to escape not only the eye of the police, but the incessant59 chatter60 which takes place in a country town about the veriest trifles — how many dishes the prefect has at his dessert, how many slices of melon are left at the door of some small householder — which strains its ear to catch the chink of the gold a thrifty61 man lays by, and spends its evenings in calculating the incomes of the village and the town and the department. It was mere62 chance that enabled Modeste to escape discovery through Ernest’s reconnoitring expedition — a step which he already regretted; but what Parisian can allow himself to be the dupe of a little country girl? Incapable63 of being duped! that horrid64 maxim65 is the dissolvent of all noble sentiments in man.
We can readily guess the struggle of feeling to which this honest young fellow fell a prey66 when we read the letter that he now indited67, in which every stroke of the flail68 which scourged69 his conscience will be found to have left its trace.
This is what Modeste read a few days later, as she sat by her window on a fine summer’s day:—
Mademoiselle — Without hypocrisy or evasion, yes, if I had been
certain that you possessed an immense fortune I should have acted
differently. Why? I have searched for the reason; here it is. We
have within us an inborn70 feeling, inordinately71 developed by social
life, which drives us to the pursuit and to the possession of
happiness. Most men confound happiness with the means that lead to
it; money in their eyes is the chief element of happiness. I
should, therefore, have endeavored to win you, prompted by that
social sentiment which has in all ages made wealth a religion. At
least, I think I should. It is not to be expected of a man still
young that he can have the wisdom to substitute sound sense for
the pleasure of the senses; within sight of a prey the brutal72
instincts hidden in the heart of man drive him on. Instead of that
lesson, I should have sent you compliments and flatteries. Should
I have kept my own esteem73 in so doing? I doubt it. Mademoiselle,
in such a case success brings absolution; but happiness? That is
another thing. Should I have distrusted my wife had I won her in
that way? Most assuredly I should. Your advance on me would sooner
or later have come between us. Your husband, however grand your
fancy may make him, would have ended by reproaching you for having
abased74 him. You, yourself, might have come, sooner or later, to
despise him. The strong man forgives, but the poet whines75. Such,
mademoiselle, is the answer which my honesty compels me to make to
you.
And now, listen to me. You have the triumph of forcing me to
reflect deeply — first on you, whom I do not sufficiently76 know;
next, on myself, of whom I knew too little. You have had the power
to stir up many of the evil thoughts which crouched77 in my heart,
as in all hearts; but from them something good and generous has
come forth78, and I salute79 you with my most fervent80 benedictions81,
just as at sea we salute the lighthouse which shows the rocks on
which we were about to perish. Here is my confession, for I would
not lose your esteem nor my own for all the treasures of earth.
I wished to know who you are. I have just returned from Havre,
where I saw Francoise Cochet, and followed her to Ingouville. You
are as beautiful as the woman of a poet’s dream; but I do not know
if you are Mademoiselle Vilquin concealed82 under Mademoiselle
d’Herouville, or Mademoiselle d’Herouville hidden under
Mademoiselle Vilquin. Though all is fair in war, I blushed at such
spying and stopped short in my inquiries83. You have roused my
curiosity; forgive me for being somewhat of a woman; it is, I
believe, the privilege of a poet.
Now that I have laid bare my heart and allowed you to read it, you
will believe in the sincerity84 of what I am about to add. Though
the glimpse I had of you was all too rapid, it has sufficed to
modify my opinion of your conduct. You are a poet and a poem, even
more than you are a woman. Yes, there is in you something more
precious than beauty; you are the beautiful Ideal of art, of
fancy. The step you took, blamable as it would be in an ordinary
young girl, allotted85 to an every-day destiny, has another aspect
if endowed with the nature which I now attribute to you. Among the
crowd of beings flung by fate into the social life of this planet
to make up a generation there are exceptional souls. If your
letter is the outcome of long poetic reveries on the fate which
conventions bring to women, if, constrained86 by the impulse of a
lofty and intelligent mind, you have wished to understand the life
of a man to whom you attribute the gift of genius, to the end that
you may create a friendship withdrawn87 from the ordinary relations
of life, with a soul in communion with your own, disregarding thus
the ordinary trammels of your sex — then, assuredly, you are an
exception. The law which rightly limits the actions of the crowd
is too limited for you. But in that case, the remark in my first
letter returns in greater force — you have done too much or not
enough.
Accept once more my thanks for the service you have rendered me,
that of compelling me to sound my heart. You have corrected in me
the false idea, only too common in France, that marriage should be
a means of fortune. While I struggled with my conscience a sacred
voice spoke88 to me. I swore solemnly to make my fortune myself, and
not be led by motives89 of cupidity90 in choosing the companion of my
life. I have also reproached myself for the blamable curiosity you
have excited in me. You have not six millions. There is no
concealment91 possible in Havre for a young lady who possesses such
a fortune; you would be discovered at once by the pack of hounds
of great families whom I see in Paris on the hunt after heiresses,
and who have already sent one, the grand equerry, the young duke,
among the Vilquins. Therefore, believe me, the sentiments I have
now expressed are fixed92 in my mind as a rule of life, from which I
have abstracted all influences of romance or of actual fact. Prove
to me, therefore, that you have one of those souls which may be
forgiven for its disobedience to the common law, by perceiving and
comprehending the spirit of this letter as you did that of my
first letter. If you are destined93 to a middle-class life, obey the
iron law which holds society together. Lifted in mind above other
women, I admire you; but if you seek to obey an impulse which you
ought to repress, I pity you. The all-wise moral of that great
domestic epic94 “Clarissa Harlowe” is that legitimate95 and honorable
love led the poor victim to her ruin because it was conceived,
developed, and pursued beyond the boundaries of family restraint.
The family, however cruel and even foolish it may be, is in the
right against the Lovelaces. The family is Society. Believe me,
the glory of a young girl, of a woman, must always be that of
repressing her most ardent96 impulses within the narrow sphere of
conventions. If I had a daughter able to become a Madame de Stael
I should wish her dead at fifteen. Can you imagine a daughter of
yours flaunting97 on the stage of fame, exhibiting herself to win
the plaudits of a crowd, and not suffer anguish98 at the thought? No
matter to what heights a woman can rise by the inward poetry of
her soul, she must sacrifice the outer signs of superiority on the
altar of her home. Her impulse, her genius, her aspirations99 toward
Good, the whole poem of a young girl’s being, should belong to the
man she accepts and the children whom she brings into the world. I
think I perceive in you a secret desire to widen the narrow circle
of the life to which all women are condemned100, and to put love and
passion into marriage. Ah! it is a lovely dream! it is not
impossible; it is difficult, but if realized, may it not be to the
despair of souls — forgive me the hackneyed word —“incompris”?
If you seek a platonic101 friendship it will be to your sorrow in
after years. If your letter was a jest, discontinue it. Perhaps
this little romance is to end here — is it? It has not been without
fruit. My sense of duty is aroused, and you, on your side, will
have learned something of Society. Turn your thoughts to real
life; throw the enthusiasms you have culled102 from literature into
the virtues103 of your sex.
Adieu, mademoiselle. Do me the honor to grant me your esteem.
Having seen you, or one whom I believe to be you, I have known
that your letter was simply natural; a flower so lovely turns to
the sun — of poetry. Yes, love poetry as you love flowers, music,
the grandeur104 of the sea, the beauties of nature; love them as an
adornment105 of the soul, but remember what I have had the honor of
telling you as to the nature of poets. Be cautious not to marry,
as you say, a dunce, but seek the partner whom God has made for
you. There are souls, believe me, who are fit to appreciate you,
and to make you happy. If I were rich, if you were poor, I would
lay my heart and my fortunes at your feet; for I believe your soul
to be full of riches and of loyalty106; to you I could confide4 my
life and my honor in absolute security.
Once more, adieu, adieu, fairest daughter of Eve the fair.
The reading of this letter, swallowed like a drop of water in the desert, lifted the mountain which weighed heavily on Modeste’s heart: then she saw the mistake she had made in arranging her plan, and repaired it by giving Francoise some envelopes directed to herself, in which the maid could put the letters which came from Paris and drop them again into the box. Modeste resolved to receive the postman herself on the steps of the Chalet at the hour when he made his delivery.
As to the feelings that this reply, in which the noble heart of poor La Briere beat beneath the brilliant phantom107 of Canalis, excited in Modeste, they were as multifarious and confused as the waves which rushed to die along the shore while with her eyes fixed on the wide ocean she gave herself up to the joy of having (if we dare say so) harpooned108 an angelic soul in the Parisian Gulf109, of having divined that hearts of price might still be found in harmony with genius, and, above all, for having followed the magic voice of intuition.
A vast interest was now about to animate110 her life. The wires of her cage were broken: the bolts and bars of the pretty Chalet — where were they? Her thoughts took wings.
“Oh, father!” she cried, looking out to the horizon. “Come back and make us rich and happy.”
The answer which Ernest de La Briere received some five days later will tell the reader more than any elaborate disquisition of ours.
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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2
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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4
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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5
deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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6
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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7
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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8
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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10
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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11
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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12
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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13
supplanted
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| 把…排挤掉，取代( supplant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
bemoaning
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| v.为（某人或某事）抱怨( bemoan的现在分词 )；悲悼；为…恸哭；哀叹 | |
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materialism
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| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
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16
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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18
slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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19
purge
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| n.整肃，清除，泻药，净化；vt.净化，清除，摆脱；vi.清除，通便，腹泻，变得清洁 | |
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20
quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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solicit
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| vi.勾引；乞求；vt.请求，乞求；招揽(生意) | |
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25
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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peccadillo
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| n.轻罪，小过失 | |
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28
gleaner
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| n.拾穗的人；割捆机 | |
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laborer
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| n.劳动者，劳工 | |
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retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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31
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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barb
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| n.（鱼钩等的）倒钩，倒刺 | |
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lackey
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| n.侍从；跟班 | |
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expiate
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| v.抵补，赎罪 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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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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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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cardinals
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| 红衣主教( cardinal的名词复数 )； 红衣凤头鸟（见于北美，雄鸟为鲜红色）； 基数 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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50
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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52
shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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thrifty
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| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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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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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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indited
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作，赋诗，创作( indite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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flail
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| v.用连枷打；击打；n.连枷（脱粒用的工具） | |
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scourged
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| 鞭打( scourge的过去式和过去分词 )； 惩罚，压迫 | |
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inborn
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| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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inordinately
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| adv.无度地，非常地 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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abased
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| 使谦卑( abase的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到羞耻； 使降低（地位、身份等）； 降下 | |
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whines
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| n.悲嗥声( whine的名词复数 )；哀鸣者v.哀号( whine的第三人称单数 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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81
benedictions
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| n.祝福( benediction的名词复数 )；（礼拜结束时的）赐福祈祷；恩赐；（大写）（罗马天主教）祈求上帝赐福的仪式 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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cupidity
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| n.贪心，贪财 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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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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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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98
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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99
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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100
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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101
platonic
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| adj.精神的；柏拉图（哲学）的 | |
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102
culled
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| v.挑选，剔除( cull的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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104
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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105
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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106
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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107
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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108
harpooned
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| v.鱼镖，鱼叉( harpoon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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110
animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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