The most important event in Oscar’s early life happened while he was still an undergraduate at Oxford1: his father, Sir William Wilde, died in 1876, leaving to his wife, Lady Wilde, nearly all he possessed2, some ￡7,000, the interest of which was barely enough to keep her in genteel poverty. The sum is so small that one is constrained3 to believe the report that Sir William Wilde in his later years kept practically open house —“lashins of whisky and a good larder,” and was besides notorious for his gallantries. Oscar’s small portion, a little money and a small house with some land, came to him in the nick of time: he used the cash partly to pay some debts at Oxford, partly to defray the expenses of a trip to Greece. It was natural that Oscar Wilde, with his eager sponge-like receptivity, should receive the best academic education of his time, and should better that by travel. We all get something like the education we desire, and Oscar Wilde, it always seemed to me, was over-educated, had learned, that is, too much from books and not enough from life and had thought too little for himself; but my readers will be able to judge of this for themselves.
In 1877 he accompanied Professor Mahaffy on a long tour through Greece. The pleasure and profit Oscar got from the trip were so great that he failed to return to Oxford on the date fixed4. The Dons fined him forty-five pounds for the breach5 of discipline; but they returned the money to him in the following year when he won First Honours in “Greats” and the Newdigate prize.
This visit to Greece when he was twenty-three confirmed the view of life which he had already formed and I have indicated sufficiently6 perhaps in that talk with Pater already recorded. But no one will understand Oscar Wilde who for a moment loses sight of the fact that he was a pagan born: as Gautier says, “One for whom the visible world alone exists,” endowed with all the Greek sensuousness8 and love of plastic beauty; a pagan, like Nietzsche and Gautier, wholly out of sympathy with Christianity, one of “the Confraternity of the faithless who cannot believe,”4 to whom a sense of sin and repentance9 are symptoms of weakness and disease.
Oscar used often to say that the chief pleasure he had in visiting Rome was to find the Greek gods and the heroes and heroines of Greek story throned in the Vatican. He preferred Niobe to the Mater Dolorosa and Helen to both; the worship of sorrow must give place, he declared, to the worship of the beautiful.
Another dominant10 characteristic of the young man may here find its place.
While still at Oxford his tastes — the bent11 of his mind, and his temperament12 — were beginning to outline his future. He spent his vacations in Dublin and always called upon his old school friend Edward Sullivan in his rooms at Trinity. Sullivan relates that when they met Oscar used to be full of his occasional visits to London and could talk of nothing but the impression made upon him by plays and players. From youth on the theatre drew him irresistibly14; he had not only all the vanity of the actor; but what might be called the born dramatist’s love for the varied15 life of the stage — its paintings, costumings, rhetoric16 — and above all the touch of emphasis natural to it which gives such opportunity for humorous exaggeration.
“I remember him telling me,” Sullivan writes, “about Irving’s ‘Macbeth,’ which made a great impression on him; he was fascinated by it. He feared, however, that the public might be similarly affected17 — a thing which, he declared, would destroy his enjoyment18 of an extraordinary performance.” He admired Miss Ellen Terry, too, extravagantly20, as he admired Marion Terry, Mrs. Langtry, and Mary Anderson later.
The death of Sir William Wilde put an end to the family life in Dublin, and set the survivors21 free. Lady Wilde had lost her husband and her only daughter in Merrion Square: the house was full of sad memories to her, she was eager to leave it all and settle in London.
The Requiescat in Oscar’s first book of poems was written in memory of this sister who died in her teens, whom he likened to “a ray of sunshine dancing about the house.” He took his vocation22 seriously even in youth: he felt that he should sing his sorrow, give record of whatever happened to him in life. But he found no new word for his bereavement23.
Willie Wilde came over to London and got employment as a journalist and was soon given almost a free hand by the editor of the society paper The World. With rare unselfishness, or, if you will, with Celtic clannishness24, he did a good deal to make Oscar’s name known. Every clever thing that Oscar said or that could be attributed to him, Willie reported in The World. This puffing25 and Oscar’s own uncommon27 power as a talker; but chiefly perhaps a whispered reputation for strange sins, had thus early begun to form a sort of myth around him. He was already on the way to becoming a personage; there was a certain curiosity about him, a flutter of interest in whatever he did. He had published poems in the Trinity College magazine, Kottabos, and elsewhere. People were beginning to take him at his own valuation as a poet and a wit; and the more readily as that ambition did not clash in any way with their more material strivings.
The time had now come for Oscar to conquer London as he had conquered Oxford. He had finished the first class in the great World–School and was eager to try the next, where his mistakes would be his only tutors and his desires his taskmasters. His University successes flattered him with the belief that he would go from triumph to triumph and be the exception proving the rule that the victor in the academic lists seldom repeats his victories on the battlefield of life.
It is not sufficiently understood that the learning of Latin and Greek and the forming of expensive habits at others’ cost are a positive disability and handicap in the rough-and-tumble tussle28 of the great city, where greed and unscrupulous resolution rule, and where there are few prizes for feats29 of memory or taste in words. When the graduate wins in life he wins as a rule in spite of his so-called education and not because of it.
It is true that the majority of English ‘Varsity men give themselves an infinitely30 better education than that provided by the authorities. They devote themselves to athletic31 sports with whole-hearted enthusiasm. Fortunately for them it is impossible to develop the body without at the same time steeling the will. The would-be athlete has to live laborious32 days; he may not eat to his liking33, nor drink to his thirst. He learns deep lessons almost unconsciously; to conquer his desires and make light of pain and discomfort34. He needs no Aristotle to teach him the value of habits; he is soon forced to use them as defences against his pet weaknesses; above all he finds that self-denial has its reward in perfect health; that the thistle pain, too, has its flower. It is a truism that ‘Varsity athletes generally succeed in life, Spartan35 discipline proving itself incomparably superior to Greek accidence.
Oscar Wilde knew nothing of this discipline. He had never trained his body to endure or his will to steadfastness36. He was the perfect flower of academic study and leisure. At Magdalen he had been taught luxurious38 living, the delight of gratifying expensive tastes; he had been brought up and enervated39 so to speak in Capua. His vanity had been full-fed with cloistered40 triumphs; he was at once pleasure-loving, vainly self-confident and weak; he had been encouraged for years to give way to his emotions and to pamper41 his sensations, and as the Cap-and-Bells of Folly42 to cherish a fantastic code of honour even in mortal combat, while despising the religion which might have given him some hold on the respect of his compatriots. What chance had this cultured honour-loving Sybarite in the deadly grapple of modern life where the first quality is will power, the only knowledge needed a knowledge of the value of money. I must not be understood here as in any degree disparaging44 Oscar. I can surely state that a flower is weaker than a weed without exalting45 the weed or depreciating46 the flower.
The first part of life’s voyage was over for Oscar Wilde; let us try to see him as he saw himself at this time and let us also determine his true relations to the world. Fortunately he has given us his own view of himself with some care.
In Foster’s Alumni Oxonienses, Oscar Wilde described himself on leaving Oxford as a “Professor of ?sthetics, and a Critic of Art”— an announcement to me at once infinitely ludicrous and pathetic. “Ludicrous” because it betrays such complete ignorance of life all given over to men industrious47 with muck-rakes: “Gadarene swine,” as Carlyle called them, “busily grubbing and grunting48 in search of pignuts.” “Pathetic” for it is boldly ingenuous49 as youth itself with a touch of youthful conceit50 and exaggeration. Another eager human soul on the threshold longing51 to find some suitable high work in the world, all unwitting of the fact that ideal strivings are everywhere despised and discouraged — jerry-built cottages for the million being the day’s demand and not oratories52 or palaces of art or temples for the spirit.
Not the time for a “professor of ?sthetics,” one would say, and assuredly not the place. One wonders whether Zululand would not be more favourable53 for such a man than England. Germany, France, and Italy have many positions in universities, picture-galleries, museums, opera houses for lovers of the beautiful, and above all an educated respect for artists and writers just as they have places too for servants of Truth in chemical laboratories and polytechnics54 endowed by the State with excellent results even from the utilitarian55 point of view. But rich England has only a few dozen such places in all at command and these are usually allotted56 with a cynical57 contempt for merit; miserable58 anarchic England, soul-starved amid its creature comforts, proving now by way of example to helots that man cannot live by bread alone:— England and Oscar Wilde! the “Black Country” and “the professor of ?sthetics”— a mad world, my masters!
It is necessary for us now to face this mournful truth that in the quarrel between these two the faults were not all on one side, mayhap England was even further removed from the ideal than the would-be professor of ?sthetics, which fact may well give us pause and food for thought. Organic progress we have been told; indeed, might have seen if we had eyes, evolution so-called is from the simple to the complex; our rulers therefore should have provided for the ever-growing complexity59 of modern life and modern men. The good gardener will even make it his ambition to produce new species; our politicians, however, will not take the trouble to give even the new species that appear a chance of living; they are too busy, it appears, in keeping their jobs.
No new profession has been organized in England since the Middle Ages. In the meantime we have invented new arts, new sciences and new letters; when will these be organized and regimented in new and living professions, so that young ingenuous souls may find suitable fields for their powers and may not be forced willy-nilly to grub for pignuts when it would be more profitable for them and for us to use their nobler faculties60? Not only are the poor poorer and more numerous in England than elsewhere; but there is less provision made for the “intellectuals” too, consequently the organism is suffering at both extremities61. It is high time that both maladies were taken in hand, for by universal consent England is now about the worst organized of all modern States, the furthest from the ideal.
Something too should be done with the existing professions to make them worthy62 of honourable63 ambition. One of them, the Church, is a noble body without a soul; the soul, our nostrils64 tell us, died some time ago, while the medical profession has got a noble spirit with a wretched half-organized body. It says much for the inherent integrity and piety65 of human nature that our doctors persist in trying to cure diseases when it is clearly to their self-interest to keep their patients ailing66 — an anarchic world, this English one, and stupefied with self-praise. What will this professor of ?sthetics make of it?
Here he is, the flower of English University training, a winner of some of the chief academic prizes without any worthy means of earning a livelihood67, save perchance by journalism68. And journalism in England suffers from the prevailing69 anarchy70. In France, Italy, and Germany journalism is a career in which an eloquent71 and cultured youth may honourably72 win his spurs. In many countries this way of earning one’s bread can still be turned into an art by the gifted and high-minded; but in England thanks in the main to the anonymity73 of the press cunningly contrived74 by the capitalist, the journalist or modern preacher is turned into a venal75 voice, a soulless Cheapjack paid to puff26 his master’s wares76. Clearly our “Professor of ?sthetics and Critic of Art” is likely to have a doleful time of it in nineteenth century London.
Oscar had already dipped into his little patrimony77, as we have seen, and he could not conceal78 from himself that he would soon have to live on what he could earn — a few pounds a week. But then he was a poet and had boundless79 confidence in his own ability. To the artist nature the present is everything; just for today he resolved that he would live as he had always lived; so he travelled first class to London and bought all the books and papers that could distract him on the way: “Give me the luxuries,” he used to say, “and anyone can have the necessaries.”
In the background of his mind there were serious misgivings80. Long afterwards he told me that his father’s death and the smallness of his patrimony had been a heavy blow to him. He encouraged himself, however, at the moment by dwelling81 on his brother’s comparative success and waved aside fears and doubts as unworthy.
It is to his credit that at first he tried to cut down expenses and live laborious days. He took a couple of furnished rooms in Salisbury Street off the Strand82, a very Grub Street for a man of fashion, and began to work at journalism while getting together a book of poems for publication. His journalism at first was anything but successful. It was his misfortune to appeal only to the best heads and good heads are not numerous anywhere. His appeal, too, was still academic and laboured. His brother Willie with his commoner sympathies appeared to be better equipped for this work. But Oscar had from the first a certain social success.
As soon as he reached London he stepped boldly into the limelight, going to all “first nights” and taking the floor on all occasions. He was not only an admirable talker but he was invariably smiling, eager, full of life and the joy of living, and above all given to unmeasured praise of whatever and whoever pleased him. This gift of enthusiastic admiration83 was not only his most engaging characteristic, but also, perhaps, the chief proof of his extraordinary ability. It was certainly, too, the quality which served him best all through his life. He went about declaring that Mrs. Langtry was more beautiful than the “Venus of Milo,” and Lady Archie Campbell more charming than Rosalind and Mr. Whistler an incomparable artist. Such enthusiasm in a young and brilliant man was unexpected and delightful84 and doors were thrown open to him in all sets. Those who praise passionately86 are generally welcome guests and if Oscar could not praise he shrugged87 his shoulders and kept silent; scarcely a bitter word ever fell from those smiling lips. No tactics could have been more successful in England than his native gift of radiant good-humour and enthusiasm. He got to know not only all the actors and actresses, but the chief patrons and frequenters of the theatre: Lord Lytton, Lady Shrewsbury, Lady Dorothy Nevill, Lady de Grey and Mrs. Jeune; and, on the other hand, Hardy88, Meredith, Browning, Swinburne, and Matthew Arnold — all Bohemia, in fact, and all that part of Mayfair which cares for the things of the intellect.
But though he went out a great deal and met a great many distinguished90 people, and won a certain popularity, his social success put no money in his purse. It even forced him to spend money; for the constant applause of his hearers gave him self-confidence. He began to talk more and write less, and cabs and gloves and flowers cost money. He was soon compelled to mortgage his little property in Ireland.
At the same time it must be admitted he was still indefatigably91 intent on bettering his mind, and in London he found more original teachers than in Oxford, notably92 Morris and Whistler. Morris, though greatly overpraised during his life, had hardly any message for the men of his time. He went for his ideals to an imaginary past and what he taught and praised was often totally unsuited to modern conditions. Whistler on the other hand was a modern of the moderns, and a great artist to boot: he had not only assimilated all the newest thought of the day, but with the alchemy of genius had transmuted94 it and made it his own. Before even the de Goncourts he had admired Chinese porcelain95 and Japanese prints and his own exquisite96 intuition strengthened by Japanese example had shown that his impression of life was more valuable than any mere89 transcript97 of it. Modern art he felt should be an interpretation98 and not a representment of reality, and he taught the golden rule of the artist that the half is usually more expressive99 than the whole. He went about London preaching new schemes of decoration and another Renaissance100 of art. Had he only been a painter he would never have exercised an extraordinary influence; but he was a singularly interesting appearance as well and an admirable talker gifted with picturesque101 phrases and a most caustic102 wit.
Oscar sat at his feet and imbibed103 as much as he could of the new ?sthetic gospel. He even ventured to annex104 some of the master’s most telling stories and thus came into conflict with his teacher.
One incident may find a place here.
The art critic of The Times, Mr. Humphry Ward13, had come to see an exhibition of Whistler’s pictures. Filled with an undue105 sense of his own importance, he buttonholed the master and pointing to one picture said:
“That’s good, first-rate, a lovely bit of colour; but that, you know,” he went on, jerking his finger over his shoulder at another picture, “that’s bad, drawing all wrong . . . bad!”
“My dear fellow,” cried Whistler, “you must never say that this painting’s good or that bad, never! Good and bad are not terms to be used by you; but say, I like this, and I dislike that, and you’ll be within your right. And now come and have a whiskey for you’re sure to like that.”
Carried away by the witty106 fling, Oscar cried:
“I wish I had said that.”
“You will, Oscar, you will,” came Whistler’s lightning thrust.
Of all the personal influences which went to the moulding of Oscar Wilde’s talent, that of Whistler, in my opinion, was the most important; Whistler taught him that men of genius stand apart and are laws unto themselves; showed him, too, that all qualities — singularity of appearance, wit, rudeness even, count doubly in a democracy. But neither his own talent nor the bold self-assertion learned from Whistler helped him to earn money; the conquest of London seemed further off and more improbable than ever. Where Whistler had missed the laurel how could he or indeed anyone be sure of winning?
A weaker professor of ?sthetics would have been discouraged by the monetary107 and other difficulties of his position and would have lost heart at the outset in front of the impenetrable blank wall of English philistinism and contempt. But Oscar Wilde was conscious of great ability and was driven by an inordinate108 vanity. Instead of diminishing his pretensions109 in the face of opposition110 he increased them. He began to go abroad in the evening in knee breeches and silk stockings wearing strange flowers in his coat — green cornflowers and gilded111 lilies — while talking about Baudelaire, whose name even was unfamiliar112, as a world poet, and proclaiming the strange creed113 that “nothing succeeds like excess.” Very soon his name came into everyone’s mouth; London talked of him and discussed him at a thousand tea-tables. For one invitation he had received before, a dozen now poured in; he became a celebrity114.
Of course he was still sneered115 at by many as a mere poseur116; it still seemed to be all Lombard Street to a china orange that he would be beaten down under the myriad117 trampling118 feet of middle-class indifference119 and disdain120.
Some circumstances were in his favour. Though the artistic121 movement inaugurated years before by the Pre–Raphaelites was still laughed at and scorned by the many as a craze, a few had stood firm, and slowly the steadfast37 minority had begun to sway the majority as is often the case in democracies. Oscar Wilde profited by the victory of these art-loving forerunners122. Here and there among the indifferent public, men were attracted by the artistic view of life and women by the emotional intensity123 of the new creed. Oscar Wilde became the prophet of an esoteric cult43. But notoriety even did not solve the monetary question, which grew more and more insistent124. A dozen times he waved it aside and went into debt rather than restrain himself. Somehow or other he would fall on his feet, he thought. Men who console themselves in this way usually fall on someone else’s feet and so did Oscar Wilde. At twenty-six years of age and curiously125 enough at the very moment of his insolent-bold challenge of the world with fantastic dress, he stooped to ask his mother for money, money which she could ill spare, though to do her justice she never wasted a second thought on money where her affections were concerned, and she not only loved Oscar but was proud of him. Still she could not give him much; the difficulty was only postponed126; what was to be done?
His vanity had grown with his growth; the dread127 of defeat was only a spur to the society favourite; he cast about for some means of conquering the Philistines128, and could think of nothing but his book of poems. He had been trying off and on for nearly a year to get it published. The publishers told him roundly that there was no money in poetry and refused the risk. But the notoriety of his knee-breeches and silken hose, and above all the continual attacks in the society papers, came to his aid and his book appeared in the early summer of 1881 with all the importance that imposing129 form, good paper, broad margins130, and high price (10/6) could give it. The truth was, he paid for the printing and production of the book himself, and David Bogue, the publisher, put his name on for a commission.
Oscar had built high fantastic hopes on this book. To the very end of his life he believed himself a poet and in the creative sense of the word he was assuredly justified131, but he meant it in the singing sense as well, and there his claim can only be admitted with serious qualifications. But whether he was a singer or not the hopes founded on this book were extravagant19; he expected to make not only reputation by it, but a large amount of money, and money is not often made in England by poetry.
The book had an extraordinary success, greater, it may safely be said, than any first book of real poetry has ever had in England or indeed is ever likely to have: four editions were sold in a few weeks. Two of the Sonnets133 in the book were addressed to Ellen Terry, one as “Portia,” the other as “Henrietta Maria”; and these partly account for the book’s popularity, for Miss Terry was delighted with them and praised the book and its author to the skies.5 I reproduce the “Henrietta Maria” sonnet132 here as a fair specimen134 of the work:
Queen Henrietta Maria
In the lone7 tent, waiting for victory,
She stands with eyes marred135 by the mists of pain,
Like some wan136 lily overdrenched with rain:
The clamorous137 clang of arms, the ensanguined sky,
War’s ruin, and the wreck138 of chivalry139,
To her proud soul no common fear can bring:
Bravely she tarrieth for her Lord the King,
Her soul aflame with passionate85 ecstasy140.
O Hair of Gold! O Crimson141 Lips! O Face!
Made for the luring142 and the love of man!
With thee I do forget the toil143 and stress,
The loveless road that knows no resting-place,
Time’s straitened pulse, the soul’s dread weariness,
My freedom and my life republican.
Lyric144 poetry is by its excellence145 the chief art of England, as music is the art of Germany. A book of poetry is almost sure of fair appreciation146 in the English press which does not trouble to notice a “Sartor Resartus” or the first essays of an Emerson. The excessive consideration given to Oscar’s book by the critics showed that already his personality and social success had affected the reporters.
The Athen?um gave the book the place of honour in its number for the 23rd of July. The review was severe; but not unjust. “Mr. Wilde’s volume of poems,” it says, “may be regarded as the evangel of a new creed. From other gospels it differs in coming after, instead of before, the cult it seeks to establish. . . . We fail to see, however, that the apostle of the new worship has any distinct message.”
The critic then took pains to prove that “nearly all the book is imitative” . . . and concluded: “Work of this nature has no element of endurance.”
The Saturday Review dismissed the book at the end of an article on “Recent Poetry” as “neither good nor bad.” The reviewer objected in the English fashion to the sensual tone of the poems; but summed up fairly enough: “This book is not without traces of cleverness, but it is marred everywhere by imitation, insincerity, and bad taste.”
At the same time the notices in Punch were extravagantly bitter, while of course the notices in The World, mainly written by Oscar’s brother, were extravagantly eulogistic147. Punch declared that “Mr. Wilde may be ?sthetic, but he is not original . . . a volume of echoes . . . Swinburne and water.”
Now what did The Athen?um mean by taking a new book of imitative verse so seriously and talking of it as the “evangel of a new creed,” besides suggesting that “it comes after the cult,” and so forth148?
It seems probable that The Athen?um mistook Oscar Wilde for a continuator of the Pre–Raphaelite movement with the sub-conscious and peculiarly English suggestion that whatever is “?sthetic” or “artistic” is necessarily weak and worthless, if not worse.
Soon after Oscar left Oxford Punch began to caricature him and ridicule149 the cult of what it christened “The Too Utterly150 Utter.” Nine Englishmen out of ten took delight in the savage151 contempt poured upon what was known euphemistically as “the ?sthetic craze” by the pet organ of the English middle class.
This was the sort of thing Punch published under the title of “A Poet’s Day”:
“Oscar at Breakfast! Oscar at Luncheon152!! Oscar at Dinner!!! Oscar at Supper!!!!”
“‘You see I am, after all, mortal,’ remarked the poet, with an ineffable153 affable smile, as he looked up from an elegant but substantial dish of ham and eggs. Passing a long willowy hand through his waving hair, he swept away a stray curl-paper, with the nonchalance154 of a D’Orsay.
“After this effort Mr. Wilde expressed himself as feeling somewhat faint; and with a half apologetic smile ordered another portion of Ham and Eggs.”
Punch’s verses on the subject were of the same sort, showing spite rather than humour. Under the heading of “Sage93 Green” (by a fading-out ?sthete) it published such stuff as this:
My love is as fair as a lily flower.
(The Peacock blue has a sacred sheen!)
Oh, bright are the blooms in her maiden155 bower156.
(Sing Hey! Sing Ho! for the sweet Sage Green!)
* * * * *
And woe157 is me that I never may win;
(The Peacock blue has a sacred sheen!)
For the Bard’s hard up, and she’s got no tin.
(Sing Hey! Sing Ho! for the sweet Sage Green!)
Taking the criticism as a whole it would be useless to deny that there is an underlying158 assumption of vicious sensuality in the poet which is believed to be reflected in the poetry. This is the only way to explain the condemnation159 which is much more bitter than the verse deserves.
The poems gave Oscar pocket money for a season; increased too his notoriety; but did him little or no good with the judicious160: there was not a memorable161 word or a new cadence162, or a sincere cry in the book. Still, first volumes of poetry are as a rule imitative and the attempt, if inferior to “Venus and Adonis,” was not without interest.
Oscar was naturally disappointed with the criticism, but the sales encouraged him and the stir the book made and he was as determined163 as ever to succeed. What was to be done next?
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Oxford
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possessed
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constrained
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fixed
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breach
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sufficiently
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lone
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sensuousness
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repentance
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dominant
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bent
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temperament
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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irresistibly
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varied
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rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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affected
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enjoyment
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extravagant
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extravagantly
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vocation
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clannishness
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25
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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26
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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27
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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28
tussle
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| n.&v.扭打，搏斗，争辩 | |
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29
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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30
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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31
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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32
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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33
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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34
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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35
spartan
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| adj.简朴的，刻苦的；n.斯巴达；斯巴达式的人 | |
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36
steadfastness
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| n.坚定，稳当 | |
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37
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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38
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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39
enervated
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| adj.衰弱的，无力的v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
cloistered
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| adj.隐居的，躲开尘世纷争的v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
pamper
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| v.纵容，过分关怀 | |
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42
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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43
cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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44
disparaging
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| adj.轻蔑的，毁谤的v.轻视( disparage的现在分词 )；贬低；批评；非难 | |
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45
exalting
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| a.令人激动的，令人喜悦的 | |
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46
depreciating
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| v.贬值，跌价，减价( depreciate的现在分词 )；贬低，蔑视，轻视 | |
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47
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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48
grunting
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| 咕哝的，呼噜的 | |
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49
ingenuous
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|
| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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50
conceit
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|
| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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51
longing
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|
| n.（for）渴望 | |
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52
oratories
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|
| n.演讲术( oratory的名词复数 )；（用长词或正式词语的）词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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53
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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54
polytechnics
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| 理工学院( polytechnic的名词复数 )； 工艺的，综合技术的 | |
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55
utilitarian
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| adj.实用的，功利的 | |
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56
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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57
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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58
miserable
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|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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59
complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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60
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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61
extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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62
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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63
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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64
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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65
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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66
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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67
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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68
journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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69
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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70
anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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71
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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72
honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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73
anonymity
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| n.the condition of being anonymous | |
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74
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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75
venal
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| adj.唯利是图的，贪脏枉法的 | |
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76
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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77
patrimony
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| n.世袭财产，继承物 | |
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78
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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79
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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80
misgivings
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|
| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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81
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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82
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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83
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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84
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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85
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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86
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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87
shrugged
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|
| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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88
hardy
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|
| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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89
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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90
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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91
indefatigably
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| adv.不厌倦地，不屈不挠地 | |
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92
notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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93
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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94
transmuted
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
porcelain
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|
| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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96
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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97
transcript
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|
| n.抄本，誊本，副本，肄业证书 | |
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98
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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99
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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100
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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101
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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102
caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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103
imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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104
annex
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|
| vt.兼并，吞并；n.附属建筑物 | |
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105
undue
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|
| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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106
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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107
monetary
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|
| adj.货币的，钱的；通货的；金融的；财政的 | |
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108
inordinate
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|
| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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109
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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110
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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111
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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112
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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113
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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114
celebrity
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|
| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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115
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
poseur
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| n.装模作样的人 | |
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117
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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118
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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119
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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120
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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121
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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122
forerunners
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| n.先驱( forerunner的名词复数 )；开路人；先兆；前兆 | |
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123
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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124
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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125
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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126
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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127
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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128
philistines
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| n.市侩，庸人( philistine的名词复数 )；庸夫俗子 | |
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129
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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130
margins
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| 边( margin的名词复数 )； 利润； 页边空白； 差数 | |
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131
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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132
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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133
sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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134
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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135
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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136
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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137
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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138
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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139
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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140
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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141
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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142
luring
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的现在分词形式） | |
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143
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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144
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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145
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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146
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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147
eulogistic
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| adj.颂扬的，颂词的 | |
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148
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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149
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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150
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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151
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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152
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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153
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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154
nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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155
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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156
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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157
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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158
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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159
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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160
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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161
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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162
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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163
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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