Such emotions, now taking place in La Briere, tend to show that, like other poor fellows for whom life begins in toil6 and care, he had never yet been loved. Arriving at Havre overnight, he had gone to bed at once, like a true coquette, to obliterate8 all traces of fatigue9; and now, after taking his bath, he had put himself into a costume carefully adapted to show him off to the best advantage. This is, perhaps, the right moment to exhibit a full-length portrait of him, if only to justify11 the last letter that Modeste was still to write to him.
Born of a good family in Toulouse, and allied12 by marriage to the minister who first took him under his protection, Ernest had that air of good-breeding which comes of an education begun in the cradle; and the habit of managing business affairs gave him a certain sedateness13 which was not pedantic14 — though pedantry15 is the natural outgrowth of premature16 gravity. He was of ordinary height; his face, which won upon all who saw him by its delicacy17 and sweetness, was warm in the flesh-tints, though without color, and relieved by a small moustache and imperial a la Mazarin. Without this evidence of virility18 he might have resembled a young woman in disguise, so refined was the shape of his face and the cut of his lips, so feminine the transparent19 ivory of a set of teeth, regular enough to have seemed artificial. Add to these womanly points a habit of speech as gentle as the expression of the face; as gentle, too, as the blue eyes with their Turkish eyelids21, and you will readily understand how it was that the minister occasionally called his young secretary Mademoiselle de La Briere. The full, clear forehead, well framed by abundant black hair, was dreamy, and did not contradict the character of the face, which was altogether melancholy22. The prominent arch of the upper eyelid20, though very beautifully cut, overshadowed the glance of the eye, and added a physical sadness — if we may so call it — produced by the droop23 of the lid over the eyeball. This inward doubt or eclipse — which is put into language by the word modesty24 — was expressed in his whole person. Perhaps we shall be able to make his appearance better understood if we say that the logic25 of design required greater length in the oval of his head, more space between the chin, which ended abruptly26, and the forehead, which was reduced in height by the way in which the hair grew. The face had, in short, a rather compressed appearance. Hard work had already drawn27 furrows28 between the eyebrows29, which were somewhat too thick and too near together, like those of a jealous nature. Though La Briere was then slight, he belonged to the class of temperaments30 which begin, after they are thirty, to take on an unexpected amount of flesh.
The young man would have seemed to a student of French history a very fair representative of the royal and almost inconceivable figure of Louis XIII. — that historical figure of melancholy modesty without known cause; pallid31 beneath the crown; loving the dangers of war and the fatigues32 of hunting, but hating work; timid with his mistress to the extent of keeping away from her; so indifferent as to allow the head of his friend to be cut off — a figure that nothing can explain but his remorse33 for having avenged34 his father on his mother. Was he a Catholic Hamlet, or merely the victim of incurable35 disease? But the undying worm which gnawed36 at the king’s vitals was in Ernest’s case simply distrust of himself — the timidity of a man to whom no woman had ever said, “Ah, how I love thee!” and, above all, the spirit of self-devotion without an object. After hearing the knell37 of the monarchy38 in the fall of his patron’s ministry40, the poor fellow had next fallen upon a rock covered with exquisite41 mosses42, named Canalis; he was, therefore, still seeking a power to love, and this spaniel-like search for a master gave him outwardly the air of a king who has met with his. This play of feeling, and a general tone of suffering in the young man’s face made it more really beautiful than he was himself aware of; for he had always been annoyed to find himself classed by women among the “handsome disconsolate,”— a class which has passed out of fashion in these days, when every man seeks to blow his own trumpet43 and put himself in the advance.
The self-distrustful Ernest now rested his immediate44 hopes on the fashionable clothes he intended to wear. He put on, for this sacred interview, where everything depended on a first impression, a pair of black trousers and carefully polished boots, a sulphur-colored waistcoat, which left to sight an exquisitely45 fine shirt with opal buttons, a black cravat46, and a small blue surtout coat which seemed glued to his back and shoulders by some newly-invented process. The ribbon of the Legion of honor was in his buttonhole. He wore a well-fitting pair of kid gloves of the Florentine bronze color, and carried his cane47 and hat in the left hand with a gesture and air that was worthy48 of the Grand Monarch39, and enabled him to show, as the sacred precincts required, his bare head with the light falling on his carefully arranged hair. He stationed himself before the service began in the church porch, from whence he could examine the church, and the Christians49 — more particularly the female Christians — who dipped their fingers in the holy water.
An inward voice cried to Modeste as she entered, “It is he!” That surtout, and indeed the whole bearing of the young man were essentially50 Parisian; the ribbon, the gloves, the cane, the very perfume of his hair were not of Havre. So when La Briere turned about to examine the tall and imposing51 Madame Latournelle, the notary52, and the bundled-up (expression sacred to women) figure of Modeste, the poor child, though she had carefully tutored herself for the event, received a violent blow on her heart when her eyes rested on this poetic figure, illuminated53 by the full light of day as it streamed through the open door. She could not be mistaken; a small white rose nearly hid the ribbon of the Legion. Would he recognize his unknown mistress muffled54 in an old bonnet55 with a double veil? Modeste was so in fear of love’s clairvoyance56 that she began to stoop in her walk like an old woman.
“Wife,” said little Latournelle as they took their seats, “that gentleman does not belong to Havre.”
“So many strangers come here,” answered his wife.
“But,” said the notary, “strangers never come to look at a church like ours, which is less than two centuries old.”
Ernest remained in the porch throughout the service without seeing any woman who realized his hopes. Modeste, on her part, could not control the trembling of her limbs until Mass was nearly over. She was in the grasp of a joy that none but she herself could depict57. At last she heard the foot-fall of a gentleman on the pavement of the aisle58. The service over, La Briere was making a circuit of the church, where no one now remained but the punctiliously59 pious60, whom he proceeded to subject to a shrewd and keen analysis. Ernest noticed that a prayer-book shook violently in the hands of a veiled woman as he passed her; as she alone kept her face hidden his suspicions were aroused, and then confirmed by Modeste’s dress, which the lover’s eye now scanned and noted61. He left the church with the Latournelles and followed them at a distance to the rue7 Royale, where he saw them enter a house accompanied by Modeste, whose custom it was to stay with her friends till the hour of vespers. After examining the little house, which was ornamented62 with scutcheons, he asked the name of the owner, and was told that he was Monsieur Latournelle, the chief notary in Havre. As Ernest lounged along the rue Royale hoping for a glimpse into the house, Modeste caught sight of him, and thereupon declared herself too ill to go to vespers. Poor Ernest thus had his trouble for his pains. He dared not wander about Ingouville; moreover, he made it a point of honor to obey orders, and he therefore went back to Paris, previously63 writing a letter which Francoise Cochet duly delivered on the morrow with the Havre postmark.
It was the custom of Monsieur and Madame Latournelle to dine at the Chalet every Sunday when they brought back Modeste after vespers. So, as soon as the invalid64 felt a little better, they started for Ingouville, accompanied by Butscha. Once at home, the happy Modeste forgot her pretended illness and her disguise, and dressed herself charmingly, humming as she came down to dinner —
“Nought is sleeping — Heart! awaking,
Lift thine incense65 to the skies.”
Butscha shuddered66 slightly when he caught sight of her, so changed did she seem to him. The wings of love were fastened to her shoulders; she had the air of a nymph, a Psyche67; her cheeks glowed with the divine color of happiness.
“Who wrote the words to which you have put that pretty music?” asked her mother.
“Canalis, mamma,” she answered, flushing rosy68 red from her throat to her forehead.
“Canalis!” cried the dwarf69, to whom the inflections of the girl’s voice and her blush told the only thing of which he was still ignorant. “He, that great poet, does he write songs?”
“They are only simple verses,” she said, “which I have ventured to set to German airs.”
“No, no,” interrupted Madame Mignon, “the music is your own, my daughter.”
Modeste, feeling that she grew more and more crimson70, went off into the garden, calling Butscha after her.
“You can do me a great service,” she said. “Dumay is keeping a secret from my mother and me as to the fortune which my father is bringing back with him; and I want to know what it is. Did not Dumay send papa when he first went away over five hundred thousand francs? Yes. Well, papa is not the kind of man to stay away four years and only double his capital. It seems he is coming back on a ship of his own, and Dumay’s share amounts to almost six hundred thousand francs.”
“There is no need to question Dumay,” said Butscha. “Your father lost, as you know, about four millions when he went away, and he has doubtless recovered them. He would of course give Dumay ten per cent of his profits; the worthy man admitted the other day how much it was, and my master and I think that in that case the colonel’s fortune must amount to six or seven millions —”
“Oh, papa!” cried Modeste, crossing her hands on her breast and looking up to heaven, “twice you have given me life!”
“Ah, mademoiselle!” said Butscha, “you love a poet. That kind of man is more or less of a Narcissus. Will he know how to love you? A phrase-maker, always busy in fitting words together, must be a bore. Mademoiselle, a poet is no more poetry than a seed is a flower.”
“Butscha, I never saw so handsome a man.”
“Beauty is a veil which often serves to hide imperfections.”
“He has the most angelic heart of heaven —”
“I pray God you may be right,” said the dwarf, clasping his hands, “— and happy! That man shall have, as you have, a servant in Jean Butscha. I will not be notary; I shall give that up; I shall study the sciences.”
“Why?”
“Ah, mademoiselle, to train up your children, if you will deign71 to make me their tutor. But, oh! if you would only listen to some advice. Let me take up this matter; let me look into the life and habits of this man — find out if he is kind, or bad-tempered72, or gentle, if he commands the respect which you merit in a husband, if he is able to love utterly73, preferring you to everything, even his own talent —”
“What does that signify if I love him?”
“Ah, true!” cried the dwarf.
At that instant Madame Mignon was saying to her friends —
“My daughter saw the man she loves this morning.”
“Then it must have been that sulphur waistcoat which puzzled you so, Latournelle,” said his wife. “The young man had a pretty white rose in his buttonhole.”
“Ah!” sighed the mother, “the sign of recognition.”
“And he also wore the ribbon of an officer of the Legion of honor. He is a charming young man. But we are all deceiving ourselves; Modeste never raised her veil, and her clothes were huddled74 on like a beggar-woman’s —”
“And she said she was ill,” cried the notary; “but she has taken off her mufflings and is just as well as she ever was.”
“It is incomprehensible!” said Dumay.
“Not at all,” said the notary; “it is now as clear as day.”
“My child,” said Madame Mignon to Modeste, as she came into the room, followed by Butscha, “did you see a well-dressed young man at church this morning, with a white rose in his button-hole?”
“I saw him,” said Butscha quickly, perceiving by everybody’s strained attention that Modeste was likely to fall into a trap. “It was Grindot, the famous architect, with whom the town is in treaty for the restoration of the church. He has just come from Paris, and I met him this morning examining the exterior75 as I was on my way to Sainte–Adresse.”
“Oh, an architect, was he? he puzzled me,” said Modeste, for whom Butscha had thus gained time to recover herself.
Dumay looked askance at Butscha. Modeste, fully10 warned, recovered her impenetrable composure. Dumay’s distrust was now thoroughly76 aroused, and he resolved to go the mayor’s office early in the morning and ascertain77 if the architect had really been in Havre the previous day. Butscha, on the other hand, was equally determined78 to go to Paris and find out something about Canalis.
Gobenheim came to play whist, and by his presence subdued79 and compressed all this fermentation of feelings. Modeste awaited her mother’s bedtime with impatience80. She intended to write, but never did so except at night. Here is the letter which love dictated81 to her while all the world was sleeping:—
To Monsieur de Canalis — Ah! my friend, my well-beloved! What
atrocious falsehoods those portraits in the shop-windows are! And
I, who made that horrible lithograph82 my joy! — I am humbled83 at the
thought of loving one so handsome. No; it is impossible that those
Parisian women are so stupid as not to have seen their dreams
fulfilled in you. You neglected! you unloved! I do not believe a
word of all that you have written me about your lonely and obscure
life, your hunger for an idol84 — sought in vain until now. You have
been too well loved, monsieur; your brow, white and smooth as a
magnolia leaf, reveals it; and it is I who must be neglected — for
who am I? Ah! why have you called me to life? I felt for a moment
as though the heavy burden of the flesh was leaving me; my soul
had broken the crystal which held it captive; it pervaded85 my whole
being; the cold silence of material things had ceased; all things
in nature had a voice and spoke86 to me. The old church was
luminous87. It’s arched roof, brilliant with gold and azure88 like
those of an Italian cathedral, sparkled above my head. Melodies
such as the angels sang to martyrs89, quieting their pains, sounded
from the organ. The rough pavements of Havre seemed to my feet a
flowery mead90; the sea spoke to me with a voice of sympathy, like
an old friend whom I had never truly understood. I saw clearly how
the roses in my garden had long adored me and bidden me love; they
lifted their heads and smiled as I came back from church. I heard
your name, “Melchior,” chiming in the flower-bells; I saw it
written on the clouds. Yes, yes, I live, I am living, thanks to
thee — my poet, more beautiful than that cold, conventional Lord
Byron, with a face as dull as the English climate. One glance of
thine, thine Orient glance, pierced through my double veil and
sent thy blood to my heart, and from thence to my head and feet.
Ah! that is not the life our mother gave us. A hurt to thee would
hurt me too at the very instant it was given — my life exists by
thy thought only. I know now the purpose of the divine faculty91 of
music; the angels invented it to utter love. Ah, my Melchior, to
have genius and to have beauty is too much; a man should be made
to choose between them at his birth.
When I think of the treasures of tenderness and affection which
you have given me, and more especially for the last month, I ask
myself if I dream. No, but you hide some mystery; what woman can
yield you up to me and not die? Ah! jealousy92 has entered my heart
with love — love in which I could not have believed. How could I
have imagined so mighty93 a conflagration94? And now — strange and
inconceivable revulsion! — I would rather you were ugly.
What follies95 I committed after I came home! The yellow dahlias
reminded me of your waistcoat, the white roses were my loving
friends; I bowed to them with a look that belonged to you, like
all that is of me. The very color of the gloves, moulded to hands
of a gentleman, your step along the nave96 — all, all, is so printed
on my memory that sixty years hence I shall see the veriest
trifles of this day of days — the color of the atmosphere, the ray
of sunshine that flickered97 on a certain pillar; I shall hear the
prayer your step interrupted; I shall inhale98 the incense of the
altar; forever I shall feel above our heads the priestly hands
that blessed us both as you passed by me at the closing
benediction99. The good Abbe Marcelin married us then! The
happiness, above that of earth, which I feel in this new world of
unexpected emotions can only be equalled by the joy of telling it
to you, of sending it back to him who poured it into my heart with
the lavishness100 of the sun itself. No more veils, no more
disguises, my beloved. Come back to me, oh, come back soon. With
joy I now unmask.
You have no doubt heard of the house of Mignon in Havre? Well, I
am, through an irreparable misfortune, its sole heiress. But you
are not to look down upon us, descendant of an Auvergne knight101;
the arms of the Mignon de La Bastie will do no dishonor to those
of Canalis. We bear gules, on a bend sable102 four bezants or;
quarterly four crosses patriarchal or; a cardinal’s hat as crest103,
and the fiocchi for supports. Dear, I will be faithful to our
motto: “Una fides, unus Dominus!”— the true faith, and one only
Master.
Perhaps, my friend, you will find some irony104 in my name, after all
that I have done, and all that I herein avow105. I am named Modeste.
Therefore I have not deceived you by signing “O. d’Este M.”
Neither have I misled you about our fortune; it will amount, I
believe, to the sum which rendered you so virtuous106. I know that to
you money is a consideration of small importance; therefore I
speak of it without reserve. Let me tell you how happy it makes me
to give freedom of action to our happiness — to be able to say,
when the fancy for travel takes us, “Come, let us go in a
comfortable carriage, sitting side by side, without a thought of
money”— happy, in short, to tell the king, “I have the fortune
which you require in your peers.” Thus Modeste Mignon can be of
service to you, and her gold will have the noblest of uses.
As to your servant herself — you did see her once, at her window.
Yes, “the fairest daughter of Eve the fair” was indeed your
unknown damozel; but how little the Modeste of today resembles
her of that long past era! That one was in her shroud107, this one
— have I made you know it? — has received from you the life of life.
Love, pure, and sanctioned, the love my father, now returning
rich and prosperous, will authorize108, has raised me with its
powerful yet childlike hand from the grave in which I slept. You
have wakened me as the sun wakens the flowers. The eyes of your
beloved are no longer those of the little Modeste so daring in her
ignorance — no, they are dimmed with the sight of happiness, and
the lids close over them. To-day I tremble lest I can never
deserve my fate. The king has come in his glory; my lord has now a
subject who asks pardon for the liberties she has taken, like the
gambler with loaded dice109 after cheating Monsieur de Grammont.
My cherished poet! I will be thy Mignon — happier far than the
Mignon of Goethe, for thou wilt110 leave me in mine own land — in thy
heart. Just as I write this pledge of our betrothal111 a nightingale
in the Vilquin park answers for thee. Ah, tell me quick that his
note, so pure, so clear, so full, which fills my heart with joy
and love like an Annunciation, does not lie to me.
My father will pass through Paris on his way from Marseilles; the
house of Mongenod, with whom he corresponds, will know his
address. Go to him, my Melchior, tell him that you love me; but do
not try to tell him how I love you — let that be forever between
ourselves and God. I, my dear one, am about to tell everything to
my mother. Her heart will justify my conduct; she will rejoice in
our secret poem, so romantic, human and divine in one.
You have the confession112 of the daughter; you must now obtain the
consent of the Comte de La Bastie, father of your
Modeste.
P.S. — Above all, do not come to Havre without having first
obtained my father’s consent. If you love me you will not fail to
find him on his way through Paris.
“What are you doing, up at this hour, Mademoiselle Modeste?” said the voice of Dumay at her door.
“Writing to my father,” she answered; “did you not tell me you should start in the morning?”
Dumay had nothing to say to that, and he went to bed, while Modeste wrote another long letter, this time to her father.
On the morrow, Francois Cochet, terrified at seeing the Havre postmark on the envelope which Ernest had mailed the night before, brought her young mistress the following letter and took away the one which Modeste had written:—
To Mademoiselle O. d’Este M. — My heart tells me that you were the
woman so carefully veiled and disguised, and seated between
Monsieur and Madame Latournelle, who have but one child, a son.
Ah, my love, if you have only a modest station, without
distinction, without importance, without money even, you do not
know how happy that would make me. You ought to understand me by
this time; why will you not tell me the truth? I am no poet,
— except in heart, through love, through you. Oh! what power of
affection there is in me to keep me here in this hotel, instead of
mounting to Ingouville which I can see from my windows. Will you
ever love me as I love you? To leave Havre in such uncertainty113! Am
I not punished for loving you as if I had committed a crime? But I
obey you blindly. Let me have a letter quickly, for if you have
been mysterious, I have returned you mystery for mystery, and I
must at last throw off my disguise, show you the poet that I am,
and abdicate114 my borrowed glory.
This letter made Modeste terribly uneasy. She could not get back the one which Francoise had carried away before she came to the last words, whose meaning she now sought by reading them again and again; but she went to her own room and wrote an answer in which she demanded an immediate explanation.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
delightful
|
|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
rendezvous
|
|
| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
irreproachable
|
|
| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
poetic
|
|
| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
scant
|
|
| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
toil
|
|
| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
rue
|
|
| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
obliterate
|
|
| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
fatigue
|
|
| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
fully
|
|
| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
justify
|
|
| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
allied
|
|
| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
sedateness
|
|
| n.安详，镇静 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
pedantic
|
|
| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
pedantry
|
|
| n.迂腐，卖弄学问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
premature
|
|
| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
delicacy
|
|
| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
virility
|
|
| n.雄劲，丈夫气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
transparent
|
|
| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
eyelid
|
|
| n.眼睑，眼皮 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
eyelids
|
|
| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
droop
|
|
| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
modesty
|
|
| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
logic
|
|
| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
abruptly
|
|
| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
furrows
|
|
| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
eyebrows
|
|
| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
temperaments
|
|
| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
pallid
|
|
| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
fatigues
|
|
| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
remorse
|
|
| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
avenged
|
|
| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
incurable
|
|
| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
gnawed
|
|
| 咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
knell
|
|
| n.丧钟声；v.敲丧钟 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
monarchy
|
|
| n.君主，最高统治者；君主政体，君主国 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
monarch
|
|
| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
ministry
|
|
| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
exquisite
|
|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
mosses
|
|
| n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
trumpet
|
|
| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
immediate
|
|
| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
exquisitely
|
|
| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
cravat
|
|
| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
cane
|
|
| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
worthy
|
|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
Christians
|
|
| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
essentially
|
|
| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
imposing
|
|
| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
notary
|
|
| n.公证人，公证员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
illuminated
|
|
| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
muffled
|
|
| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
bonnet
|
|
| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
clairvoyance
|
|
| n.超人的洞察力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
depict
|
|
| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
aisle
|
|
| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
punctiliously
|
|
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
pious
|
|
| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
noted
|
|
| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
ornamented
|
|
| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
previously
|
|
| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
invalid
|
|
| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
incense
|
|
| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
shuddered
|
|
| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
psyche
|
|
| n.精神；灵魂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
rosy
|
|
| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
dwarf
|
|
| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
crimson
|
|
| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
deign
|
|
| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
bad-tempered
|
|
| adj.脾气坏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
huddled
|
|
| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
exterior
|
|
| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
thoroughly
|
|
| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
ascertain
|
|
| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
determined
|
|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
subdued
|
|
| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
impatience
|
|
| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
dictated
|
|
| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
lithograph
|
|
| n.平板印刷，平板画；v.用平版印刷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
humbled
|
|
| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
idol
|
|
| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
pervaded
|
|
| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
luminous
|
|
| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
azure
|
|
| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
martyrs
|
|
| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
mead
|
|
| n.蜂蜜酒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
faculty
|
|
| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
jealousy
|
|
| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
mighty
|
|
| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
conflagration
|
|
| n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
follies
|
|
| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
nave
|
|
| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
flickered
|
|
| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
inhale
|
|
| v.吸入(气体等)，吸(烟) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
benediction
|
|
| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
lavishness
|
|
| n.浪费，过度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
101
knight
|
|
| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
sable
|
|
| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
crest
|
|
| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
irony
|
|
| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
avow
|
|
| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
virtuous
|
|
| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
shroud
|
|
| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
authorize
|
|
| v.授权，委任；批准，认可 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
dice
|
|
| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
wilt
|
|
| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
betrothal
|
|
| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
confession
|
|
| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
uncertainty
|
|
| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
abdicate
|
|
| v.让位，辞职，放弃 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |