He was an incomparable companion, perfectly3 amiable4, yet vivid, and eager as a child, always interested and interesting. We awoke at Avignon and went out in pyjamas5 and overcoats to stretch our legs and get a bowl of coffee on the platform in the pearly grey light of early morning. After coffee and cigarettes he led the way to the other end of the platform, that we might catch a glimpse of the town wall which, though terribly restored, yet, when seen from a distance, transports one back five hundred years to the age of chivalry6.
“How I should have loved to be a troubadour, or a trouvère, Frank; that was my true métier, to travel from castle to castle singing love songs and telling romantic stories to while away the tedium8 of the lives of the great. Fancy the reception they would have given me for bringing a new joy into their castled isolation9, new ideas, new passions — a breath of gossip and scandal from the outside world to relieve the intolerable boredom10 of the middle ages. I should have been kept at the Court of Aix: I think they would have bound me with flower-chains, and my fame would have spread all through the sunny vineyards and grey olive-clad hills of Provence.”
When we got into the train again he began:
“We stop next at Marseilles, don’t we, Frank? A great historic town for nearly three thousand years. One really feels a barbarian11 in comparison, and yet all I know of Marseilles is that it is famous for bouillabaisse. Suppose we stop and get some?”
“Bouillabaisse,” I replied, “is not peculiar12 to Marseilles or the Rue7 Cannebière. You can get it all along this coast. There is only one thing necessary to it and that is rascasse, a fish caught only among the rocks: you will get excellent bouillabaisse at lunch where we are going.”
“Where are we going? You have not told me yet.”
“It is for you to decide,” I answered. “If you want perfect quiet there are two places in the Esterel mountains, Agay and La Napoule. Agay is in the middle of the Esterel. You would be absolutely alone there except for the visit of an occasional French painter. La Napoule is eight or ten miles from Cannes, so that you are within reach of a town and its amusements. There is still another place I had thought of, quieter than either, in the mountains behind Nice.”
“Nice sounds wonderful, Frank, but I should meet too many English people there who would know me, and they are horribly rude. I think we will choose La Napoule.”
About ten o’clock we got out at La Napoule and installed ourselves in the little hotel, taking up three of the best rooms on the second or top floor, much to the delight of the landlord. At twelve we had breakfast under a big umbrella in the open air, looking over the sea. I had put the landlord on his mettle13, and he gave us a fry of little red mullet, which made us understand how tasteless whitebait are: then a plain beefsteak aux pommes, a morsel14 of cheese, and a sweet omelette. We both agreed that we had had a most excellent breakfast. The coffee left a good deal to be desired, and there was no champagne15 on the list fit to drink; but both these faults could be remedied by the morrow, and were remedied.
We spent the rest of the day wandering between the seashore and the pine-clad hills. The next morning I put in some work, but in the afternoon I was free to walk and explore. On one of my first tramps I discovered a monastery16 among the hills hundreds of feet above the sea, built and governed by an Italian monk17. I got to know the Père Vergile42 and had a great talk with him. He was both wise and strong, with ingratiating, gentle manners. Had he gone as a boy from his little Italian fishing village to New York or Paris, he would have certainly come to greatness and honour. One afternoon I took Oscar to see him: the monastery was not more than three-quarters of an hour’s stroll from our hotel; but Oscar grumbled18 at the walk as a nuisance, said it was miles and miles; the road, too, was rough, and the sun hot. The truth was, he was abnormally lazy. But he fascinated the Italian with his courteous19 manner and vivid speech, and as soon as we were alone the Abbé asked me who he was.
“He must be a great man,” he said, “he has the stamp of a great man, and he must have lived in courts: he has the charming, graceful20, smiling courtesy of the great.”
“Yes,” I nodded mysteriously, “a great man — incognito21.”
The Abbé kept us to dinner, made us taste of his oldest wines, and a special liqueur of his own distilling22; told us how he had built the monastery with no money, and when we exclaimed with wonder, reproved us gently:
“All great things are built with faith, and not with money; why wonder that this little building stands firmly on that everlasting23 foundation?”
When we came out of the monastery it was already night, and the moonlight was throwing fantastic leafy shadows on the path, as we walked down through the avenue of forest to the sea shore.
“You remember those words of Vergil, Frank — per amica silentia lun? — they always seem to me indescribably beautiful; the most magic line about the moon ever written, except Browning’s in the poem in which he mentioned Keats —‘him even.’ I love that ‘amica silentia.’ What a beautiful nature the man had who could feel ‘the friendly silences of the moon.’”
When we got down the hill he declared himself tired.
“Tired after a mile?” I asked.
“Tired to death, worn out,” he said, laughing at his own laziness.
“Shall we get a boat and row across the bay?”
“How splendid! of course, let’s do it,” and we went down to the landing stage. I had never seen the water so calm; half the bay was veiled by the mountain, and opaque24 like unpolished steel; a little further out, the water was a purple shield, emblazoned with shimmering25 silver. We called a fisherman and explained what we wanted. When we got into the boat, to my astonishment26, Oscar began calling the fisher boy by his name; evidently he knew him quite well. When we landed I went up from the boat to the hotel, leaving Oscar and the boy together. . . .
A fortnight taught me a good deal about Oscar at this time; he was intensely indolent: quite content to kill time by the hour talking to the fisher lads, or he would take a little carriage and drive to Cannes and amuse himself at some wayside café.
He never cared to walk and I walked for miles daily, so that we spent only one or at most two afternoons a week together, meeting so seldom that nearly all our talks were significant. Several times contemporary names came up and I was compelled to notice for the first time that really he was contemptuous of almost everyone, and had a sharp word to say about many who were supposed to be his friends. One day we spoke27 of Ricketts and Shannon; I was saying that had Ricketts lived in Paris he would have had a great reputation: many of his designs I thought extraordinary, and his intellect was peculiarly French — mordant28 even. Oscar did not like to hear praise of anyone.
“Do you know my word for them, Frank? I like it. I call them ‘Temper and Temperament29.’”
Was his punishment making him a little spiteful or was it the temptation of the witty30 phrase?
“What do you think of Arthur Symons?” I asked.
“Oh, Frank, I said of him long ago that he was a sad example of an Egoist who had no Ego31.”
“And what of your compatriot, George Moore? He’s popular enough,” I continued.
“Popular, Frank, as if that counted. George Moore has conducted his whole education in public. He had written two or three books before he found out there was such a thing as English grammar. He at once announced his discovery and so won the admiration32 of the illiterate33. A few years later he discovered that there was something architectural in style, that sentences had to be built up into a paragraph, and paragraphs into chapters and so on. Naturally he cried this revelation, too, from the housetops, and thus won the admiration of the journalists who had been making rubble-heaps all their lives without knowing it. I’m much afraid, Frank, in spite of all his efforts, he will die before he reaches the level from which writers start. It’s a pity because he has certainly a little real talent. He differs from Symons in that he has an Ego, but his Ego has five senses and no soul.”
“What about Bernard Shaw?” I probed further, “after all he’s going to count.”
“Yes, Frank, a man of real ability but with a bleak34 mind. Humorous gleams as of wintry sunlight on a bare, harsh landscape. He has no passion, no feeling, and without passionate35 feeling how can one be an artist? He believes in nothing, loves nothing, not even Bernard Shaw, and really, on the whole, I don’t wonder at his indifference,” and he laughed mischievously36.
“And Wells?” I asked.
“A scientific Jules Verne,” he replied with a shrug37.
“Did you ever care for Hardy38?” I continued.
“Not greatly. He has just found out that women have legs underneath39 their dresses, and this discovery has almost wrecked40 his life. He writes poetry, I believe, in his leisure moments, and I am afraid it will be very hard reading. He knows nothing of love; passion to him is a childish illness like measles41 — poor unhappy spirit!”
“You might be describing Mrs. Humphry Ward42,” I cried.
“God forbid, Frank,” he exclaimed with such mock horror I had to laugh. “After all, Hardy is a writer and a great landscape painter.”
“I don’t know why it is,” he went on, “but I am always match-making when I think of English celebrities43. I should so much like to have introduced Mrs. Humphry Ward blushing at eighteen or twenty to Swinburne, who would of course have bitten her neck in a furious kiss, and she would have run away and exposed him in court, or else have suffered agonies of mingled44 delight and shame in silence.
“And if one could only marry Thomas Hardy to Victoria Cross he might have gained some inkling of real passion with which to animate45 his little keepsake pictures of starched46 ladies. A great many writers, I think, might be saved in this way, but there would still be left the Corellis and Hall Caines that one could do nothing with except bind47 them back to back, which would not even tantalise them, and throw them into the river, a new noyade: the Thames at Barking, I think, would be about the place for them. . . . ”
“Where do you go every afternoon?” I asked him once casually48.
“I go to Cannes, Frank, and sit in a café and look across the sea to Capri, where Tiberius used to sit like a spider watching, and I think of myself as an exile, the victim of one of his inscrutable suspicions, or else I am in Rome looking at the people dancing naked, but with gilded49 lips, through the streets at the Floralia. I sup with the arbiter50 elegantiarum and come back to La Napoule, Frank,” and he pulled his jowl, “to the simple life and the charm of restful friendship.”
More and more clearly I saw that the effort, the hard work, of writing was altogether beyond him: he was now one of those men of genius, talkers merely, half artists, half dreamers, whom Balzac describes contemptuously as wasting their lives, “talking to hear themselves talk”; capable indeed of fine conceptions and of occasional fine phrases, but incapable52 of the punishing toil53 of execution; charming companions, fated in the long run to fall to misery54 and destitution55.
Constant creation is the first condition of art as it is the first condition of life.
I asked him one day if he remembered the terrible passage about those “eunuchs of art” in “La Cousine Bette.”
“Yes, Frank,” he replied; “but Balzac was probably envious56 of the artist-talker; at any rate, we who talk should not be condemned57 by those to whom we dedicate our talents. It is for posterity59 to blame us; but after all I have written a good deal. Do you remember how Browning’s Sarto defends himself?
“Some good son
Paint my two hundred pictures — let him try.”
He did not see that Balzac, one of the greatest talkers that ever lived according to Théophile Gautier, was condemning60 the temptation to which he himself had no doubt yielded too often. To my surprise, Oscar did not even read much now. He was not eager to hear new thoughts, a little rebellious61 to any new mental influence. He had reached his zenith, I suppose: had begun to fossilise, as men do when they cease to grow.
One day at lunch I questioned him:
“You told me once that you always imagined yourself in the place of every historic personage. Suppose you had been Jesus, what religion would you have preached?”
“What a wonderful question!” he cried. “What religion is mine? What belief have I?
“I believe most of all in personal liberty for every human soul. Each man ought to do what he likes, to develop as he will. England, or rather London, for I know little of England outside London, was an ideal place to me, till they punished me because I did not share their tastes. What an absurdity62 it all was, Frank: how dared they punish me for what is good in my eyes? How dared they?” and he fell into moody63 thought. . . . The idea of a new gospel did not really interest him.
It was about this time he first told me of a new play he had in mind.
“It has a great scene, Frank,” he said. “Imagine a roué of forty-five who is married; incorrigible64, of course, Frank, a great noble who gets the person he is in love with to come and stay with him in the country. One evening his wife, who has gone upstairs to lie down with a headache, is behind a screen in a room half asleep; she is awakened65 by her husband’s courting. She cannot move, she is bound breathless to her couch; she hears everything. Then, Frank, the husband comes to the door and finds it locked, and knowing that his wife is inside with the host, beats upon the door and will have entrance, and while the guilty ones whisper together — the woman blaming the man, the man trying to think of some excuse, some way out of the net — the wife gets up very quietly and turns on the lights while the two cowards stare at her with wild surmise66. She passes to the door and opens it and the husband rushes in to find his hostess as well as the host and his wife. I think it is a great scene, Frank, a great stage picture.”
“It is,” I said, “a great scene; why don’t you write it?”
“Perhaps I shall, Frank, one of these days, but now I am thinking of some poetry, a ‘Ballad67 of a Fisher Boy,’ a sort of companion to ‘The Ballad of Reading Gaol,’ in which I sing of liberty instead of prison, joy instead of sorrow, a kiss instead of an execution. I shall do this joy-song much better than I did the song of sorrow and despair.”
“Like Davidson’s ‘Ballad of a Nun,’” I said, for the sake of saying something.
“Naturally Davidson would write the ‘Ballad of a Nun,’ Frank; his talent is Scotch68 and severe; but I should like to write ‘The Ballad of a Fisher Boy,’” and he fell to dreaming.
The thought of his punishment was oft with him. It seemed to him hideously69 wrong and unjust. But he never questioned the right of society to punish. He did not see that, if you once grant that, the wrong done to him could be defended.
“I used to think myself a lord of life,” he said. “How dared those little wretches71 condemn58 me and punish me? Everyone of them tainted72 with a sensuality which I loathe73.”
To call him out of this bitter way of regret I quoted Shakespeare’s sonnet74:
“For why should others’ false adulterate eyes
Give salutation to my sportive blood?
Or on my frailties75 why are frailer76 spies,
Which in their wills count bad what I think good?”
“His complaint is exactly yours, Oscar.”
“It’s astonishing, Frank, how well you know him, and yet you deny his intimacy77 with Pembroke. To you he is a living man; you always talk of him as if he had just gone out of the room, and yet you persist in believing in his innocence78.”
“You misapprehend me,” I said, “the passion of his life was for Mary Fitton, to give her a name; I mean the ‘dark lady’ of the sonnets79, who was Beatrice, Cressida and Cleopatra, and you yourself admit that a man who has a mad passion for a woman is immune, I think the doctors call it, to other influences.”
“Oh, yes, Frank, of course; but how could Shakespeare with his beautiful nature love a woman to that mad excess?”
“Shakespeare hadn’t your overwhelming love of plastic beauty,” I replied; “he fell in love with a dominant80 personality, the complement81 of his own yielding, amiable disposition82.”
“That’s it,” he broke in, “our opposites attract us irresistibly83 — the charm of the unknown!”
“You often talk now,” I went on, “as if you had never loved a woman; yet you must have loved — more than one.”
“My salad days, Frank,” he quoted, smiling, “when I was green in judgment1, cold of blood.”
“No, no,” I persisted, “it is not a great while since you praised Lady So and So and the Terrys enthusiastically.”
“Lady — — ” he began gravely (and I could not but notice that the mere51 title seduced84 him to conventional, poetic85 language), “moves like a lily in water; I always think of her as a lily; just as I used to think of Lily Langtry as a tulip, with a figure like a Greek vase carved in ivory. But I always adored the Terrys: Marion is a great actress with subtle charm and enigmatic fascination86: she was my ‘Woman of no importance,’ artificial and enthralling87; she belongs to my theatre —”
As he seemed to have lost the thread, I questioned again.
“And Ellen?”
“Oh, Ellen’s a perfect wonder,” he broke out, “a great character. Do you know her history?” And then, without waiting for an answer, he continued:
“She began as a model for Watts88, the painter, when she was only some fifteen or sixteen years of age. In a week she read him as easily as if he had been a printed book. He treated her with condescending89 courtesy, en grand seigneur, and, naturally, she had her revenge on him.
“One day her mother came in and asked Watts what he was going to do about Ellen. Watts said he didn’t understand. ‘You have made Ellen in love with you,’ said the mother, and it is impossible that could have happened unless you had been attentive90 to her.’
“Poor Watts protested and protested, but the mother broke down and sobbed91, and said the girl’s heart would be broken, and at length, in despair, Watts asked what he was to do, and the mother could only suggest marriage.
“Finally they were married.”
“You don’t mean that,” I cried, “I never knew that Watts had married Ellen Terry.”
“Oh, yes,” said Oscar, “they were married all right. The mother saw to that, and to do him justice, Watts kept the whole family like a gentleman. But like an idealist, or, as a man of the world would say, a fool, he was ashamed of his wife; he showed great reserve to her, and when he gave his usual dinners or receptions, he invited only men and so, carefully, left her out.
“One evening he had a dinner; a great many well-known people were present and a bishop92 was on his right hand, when, suddenly, between the cheese and the pear, as the French would say, Ellen came dancing into the room in pink tights with a basket of roses around her waist with which she began pelting93 the guests. Watts was horrified94, but everyone else delighted, the bishop in especial, it is said, declared he had never seen anything so romantically beautiful. Watts nearly had a fit, but Ellen danced out of the room with all their hearts in her basket instead of her roses.
“To me that’s the true story of Ellen Terry’s life. It may be true or false in reality, but I believe it to be true in fact as in symbol; it is not only an image of her life, but of her art. No one knows how she met Irving or learned to act, though, as you know, she was one of the best actresses that ever graced the English stage. A great personality. Her children even have inherited some of her talent.”
It was only famous actresses such as Ellen Terry and Sarah Bernhardt and great ladies that Oscar ever praised. He was a snob95 by nature; indeed this was the chief link between him and English society. Besides, he had a rooted contempt for women and especially for their brains. He said once, of some one: “he is like a woman, sure to remember the trivial and forget the important.”
It was this disdain96 of the sex which led him, later, to take up our whole dispute again.
“I have been thinking over our argument in the train,” he began; “really it was preposterous97 of me to let you off with a drawn98 battle; you should have been beaten and forced to haul down your flag. We talked of love and I let you place the girl against the boy: it is all nonsense. A girl is not made for love; she is not even a good instrument of love.”
“Some of us care more for the person than the pleasure,” I replied, “and others —. You remember Browning:
Nearer we hold of God
Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe.”
“Yes, yes,” he replied impatiently, “but that’s not the point. I mean that a woman is not made for passion and love; but to be a mother.
“When I married, my wife was a beautiful girl, white and slim as a lily, with dancing eyes and gay rippling99 laughter like music. In a year or so the flower-like grace had all vanished; she became heavy, shapeless, deformed100: she dragged herself about the house in uncouth101 misery with drawn blotched face and hideous70 body, sick at heart because of our love. It was dreadful. I tried to be kind to her; forced myself to touch and kiss her; but she was sick always, and — oh! I cannot recall it, it is all loathsome102. . . . I used to wash my mouth and open the window to cleanse103 my lips in the pure air. Oh, nature is disgusting; it takes beauty and defiles104 it: it defaces the ivory-white body we have adored, with the vile105 cicatrices of maternity106: it befouls the altar of the soul.
“How can you talk of such intimacy as love? How can you idealise it? Love is not possible to the artist unless it is sterile108.”
“All her suffering did not endear her to you?” I asked in amazement109; “did not call forth110 that pity in you which you used to speak of as divine?”
“Pity, Frank,” he exclaimed impatiently; “pity has nothing to do with love. How can one desire what is shapeless, deformed, ugly? Desire is killed by maternity; passion buried in conception,” and he flung away from the table.
At length I understood his dominant motive111: trahit sua quemque voluptas, his Greek love of form, his intolerant cult112 of physical beauty, could take no heed113 of the happiness or well-being114 of the beloved.
“I will not talk to you about it, Frank; I am like a Persian, who lives by warmth and worships the sun, talking to some Esquimau, who answers me with praise of blubber and nights spent in ice houses and baths of foul107 vapour. Let’s talk of something else.”
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1
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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pyjamas
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| n.（宽大的）睡衣裤 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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incognito
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| adv.匿名地；n.隐姓埋名；adj.化装的，用假名的，隐匿姓名身份的 | |
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distilling
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| n.蒸馏（作用）v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )( distilled的过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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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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mordant
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| adj.讽刺的；尖酸的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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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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mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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40
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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41
measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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42
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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43
celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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44
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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45
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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46
starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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48
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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49
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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50
arbiter
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| n.仲裁人，公断人 | |
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51
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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52
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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53
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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54
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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55
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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56
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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57
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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58
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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59
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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60
condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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61
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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62
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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63
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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64
incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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65
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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66
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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67
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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68
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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69
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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70
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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71
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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72
tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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73
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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74
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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75
frailties
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| n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 )；虚弱；（性格或行为上的）弱点；缺点 | |
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frailer
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| 脆弱的( frail的比较级 )； 易损的； 易碎的 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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79
sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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80
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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81
complement
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| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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82
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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83
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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84
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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85
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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86
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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87
enthralling
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| 迷人的 | |
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88
watts
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| （电力计量单位）瓦，瓦特( watt的名词复数 ) | |
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89
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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90
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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91
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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92
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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93
pelting
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| 微不足道的，无价值的，盛怒的 | |
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94
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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95
snob
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| n.势利小人，自以为高雅、有学问的人 | |
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96
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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97
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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98
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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99
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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100
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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101
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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102
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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103
cleanse
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| vt.使清洁，使纯洁，清洗 | |
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104
defiles
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| v.玷污( defile的第三人称单数 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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105
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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106
maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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107
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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108
sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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109
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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110
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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111
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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112
cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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113
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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114
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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