The latent preparedness of the American mind even for the most characteristic features of English life was a matter I meanwhile failed to get to the bottom of. The roots of it are indeed so deeply buried in the soil of our early culture that, without some great upheaval11 of feeling, we are at a loss to say exactly when and where and how it begins. It makes an American’s enjoyment12 of England an emotion more searching than anything Continental13. I had seen the coffee-room of the Red Lion years ago, at home — at Saragossa Illinois — in books, in visions, in dreams, in Dickens, in Smollett, in Boswell. It was small and subdivided14 into six narrow compartments15 by a series of perpendicular16 screens of mahogany, something higher than a man’s stature17, furnished on either side with a meagre uncushioned ledge18, denominated in ancient Britain a seat. In each of these rigid19 receptacles was a narrow table — a table expected under stress to accommodate no less than four pairs of active British elbows. High pressure indeed had passed away from the Red Lion for ever. It now knew only that of memories and ghosts and atmosphere. Round the room there marched, breast-high, a magnificent panelling of mahogany, so dark with time and so polished with unremitted friction21 that by gazing a while into its lucid22 blackness I made out the dim reflexion of a party of wigged23 gentlemen in knee-breeches just arrived from York by the coach. On the dark yellow walls, coated by the fumes24 of English coal, of English mutton, of Scotch25 whiskey, were a dozen melancholy26 prints, sallow-toned with age — the Derby favourite of the year 1807, the Bank of England, her Majesty27 the Queen. On the floor was a Turkey carpet — as old as the mahogany almost, as the Bank of England, as the Queen — into which the waiter had in his lonely revolutions trodden so many massive soot-flakes and drops of overflowing28 beer that the glowing looms29 of Smyrna would certainly not have recognised it. To say that I ordered my dinner of this archaic30 type would be altogether to misrepresent the process owing to which, having dreamed of lamb and spinach31 and a salade de saison, I sat down in penitence32 to a mutton-chop and a rice pudding. Bracing33 my feet against the cross-beam of my little oaken table, I opposed to the mahogany partition behind me the vigorous dorsal34 resistance that must have expressed the old-English idea of repose35. The sturdy screen refused even to creak, but my poor Yankee joints36 made up the deficiency.
While I was waiting there for my chop there came into the room a person whom, after I had looked at him a moment, I supposed to be a fellow lodger37 and probably the only one. He seemed, like myself, to have submitted to proposals for dinner; the table on the other side of my partition had been prepared to receive him. He walked up to the fire, exposed his back to it and, after consulting his watch, looked directly out of the window and indirectly38 at me. He was a man of something less than middle age and more than middle stature, though indeed you would have called him neither young nor tall. He was chiefly remarkable39 for his emphasised leanness. His hair, very thin on the summit of his head, was dark short and fine. His eye was of a pale turbid40 grey, unsuited, perhaps, to his dark hair and well-drawn brows, but not altogether out of harmony with his colourless bilious42 complexion43. His nose was aquiline44 and delicate; beneath it his moustache languished45 much rather than bristled46. His mouth and chin were negative, or at the most provisional; not vulgar, doubtless, but ineffectually refined. A cold fatal gentlemanly weakness was expressed indeed in his attenuated47 person. His eye was restless and deprecating; his whole physiognomy, his manner of shifting his weight from foot to foot, the spiritless droop48 of his head, told of exhausted49 intentions, of a will relaxed. His dress was neat and “toned down”— he might have been in mourning. I made up my mind on three points: he was a bachelor, he was out of health, he was not indigenous50 to the soil. The waiter approached him, and they conversed51 in accents barely audible. I heard the words “claret,” “sherry” with a tentative inflexion, and finally “beer” with its last letter changed to “ah.” Perhaps he was a Russian in reduced circumstances; he reminded me slightly of certain sceptical cosmopolite Russians whom I had met on the Continent. While in my extravagant52 way I followed this train — for you see I was interested — there appeared a short brisk man with reddish-brown hair, with a vulgar nose, a sharp blue eye and a red beard confined to his lower jaw53 and chin. My putative54 Russian, still in possession of the rug, let his mild gaze stray over the dingy55 ornaments56 of the room. The other drew near, and his umbrella dealt a playful poke8 at the concave melancholy waistcoat. “A penny ha’penny for your thoughts!”
My friend, as I call him, uttered an exclamation58, stared, then laid his two hands on the other’s shoulders. The latter looked round at me keenly, compassing me in a momentary59 glance. I read in its own vague light that this was a transatlantic eyebeam; and with such confidence that I hardly needed to see its owner, as he prepared, with his companion, to seat himself at the table adjoining my own, take from his overcoat-pocket three New York newspapers and lay them beside his plate. As my neighbours proceeded to dine I felt the crumbs60 of their conversation scattered61 pretty freely abroad. I could hear almost all they said, without straining to catch it, over the top of the partition that divided us. Occasionally their voices dropped to recovery of discretion62, but the mystery pieced itself together as if on purpose to entertain me. Their speech was pitched in the key that may in English air be called alien in spite of a few coincidences. The voices were American, however, with a difference; and I had no hesitation63 in assigning the softer and clearer sound to the pale thin gentleman, whom I decidedly preferred to his comrade. The latter began to question him about his voyage.
“Horrible, horrible! I was deadly sick from the hour we left New York.”
“Well, you do look considerably65 reduced,” said the second-comer.
“Reduced! I’ve been on the verge66 of the grave. I haven’t slept six hours for three weeks.” This was said with great gravity.
“Well, I’ve made the voyage for the last time.”
“The plague you have! You mean to locate here permanently67?”
“Oh it won’t be so very permanent!”
There was a pause; after which: “You’re the same merry old boy, Searle. Going to give up the ghost tomorrow, eh?”
“I almost wish I were.”
“You’re not so sweet on England then? I’ve heard people say at home that you dress and talk and act like an Englishman. But I know these people here and I know you. You’re not one of this crowd, Clement68 Searle, not you. You’ll go under here, sir; you’ll go under as sure as my name’s Simmons.”
Following this I heard a sudden clatter69 as of the drop of a knife and fork. “Well, you’re a delicate sort of creature, if it IS your ugly name! I’ve been wandering about all day in this accursed city, ready to cry with homesickness and heartsickness and every possible sort of sickness, and thinking, in the absence of anything better, of meeting you here this evening and of your uttering some sound of cheer and comfort and giving me some glimmer70 of hope. Go under? Ain’t I under now? I can’t do more than get under the ground!”
Mr. Simmons’s superior brightness appeared to flicker71 a moment in this gust72 of despair, but the next it was burning steady again. “DON’T ‘cry,’ Searle,” I heard him say. “Remember the waiter. I’ve grown Englishman enough for that. For heaven’s sake don’t let’s have any nerves. Nerves won’t do anything for you here. It’s best to come to the point. Tell me in three words what you expect of me.”
I heard another movement, as if poor Searle had collapsed73 in his chair. “Upon my word, sir, you’re quite inconceivable. You never got my letter?”
“Yes, I got your letter. I was never sorrier to get anything in my life.”
At this declaration Mr. Searle rattled74 out an oath, which it was well perhaps that I but partially75 heard. “Abijah Simmons,” he then cried, “what demon76 of perversity77 possesses you? Are you going to betray me here in a foreign land, to turn out a false friend, a heartless rogue78?”
“Go on, sir,” said sturdy Simmons. “Pour it all out. I’ll wait till you’ve done. Your beer’s lovely,” he observed independently to the waiter. “I’ll have some more.”
“For God’s sake explain yourself!” his companion appealed.
There was a pause, at the end of which I heard Mr. Simmons set down his empty tankard with emphasis. “You poor morbid79 mooning man,” he resumed, “I don’t want to say anything to make you feel sore. I regularly pity you. But you must allow that you’ve acted more like a confirmed crank than a member of our best society — in which every one’s so sensible.”
Mr. Searle seemed to have made an effort to compose himself. “Be so good as to tell me then what was the meaning of your letter.”
“Well, you had got on MY nerves, if you want to know, when I wrote it. It came of my always wishing so to please folks. I had much better have let you alone. To tell you the plain truth I never was so horrified80 in my life as when I found that on the strength of my few kind words you had come out here to seek your fortune.”
“What then did you expect me to do?”
“I expected you to wait patiently till I had made further enquiries and had written you again.”
“And you’ve made further enquiries now?”
“Enquiries! I’ve committed assaults.”
“And you find I’ve no claim?”
“No claim that one of THESE big bugs81 will look at. It struck me at first that you had rather a neat little case. I confess the look of it took hold of me —”
“Thanks to your liking82 so to please folks!” Mr. Simmons appeared for a moment at odds83 with something; it proved to be with his liquor. “I rather think your beer’s too good to be true,” he said to the waiter. “I guess I’ll take water. Come, old man,” he resumed, “don’t challenge me to the arts of debate, or you’ll have me right down on you, and then you WILL feel me. My native sweetness, as I say, was part of it. The idea that if I put the thing through it would be a very pretty feather in my cap and a very pretty penny in my purse was part of it. And the satisfaction of seeing a horrid84 low American walk right into an old English estate was a good deal of it. Upon my word, Searle, when I think of it I wish with all my heart that, extravagant vain man as you are, I COULD, for the charm of it, put you through! I should hardly care what you did with the blamed place when you got it. I could leave you alone to turn it into Yankee notions — into ducks and drakes as they call ’em here. I should like to see you tearing round over it and kicking up its sacred dust in their very faces!”
“You don’t know me one little bit,” said Mr. Searle, rather shirking, I thought, the burden of this tribute and for all response to the ambiguity85 of the compliment.
“I should be very glad to think I didn’t, sir. I’ve been to no small amount of personal inconvenience for you. I’ve pushed my way right up to the headspring. I’ve got the best opinion that’s to be had. The best opinion that’s to be had just gives you one leer over its spectacles. I guess that look will fix you if you ever get it straight. I’ve been able to tap, indirectly,” Mr. Simmons went on, “the solicitor86 of your usurping87 cousin, and he evidently knows something to be in the wind. It seems your elder brother twenty years ago put out a feeler. So you’re not to have the glory of even making them sit up.”
“I never made any one sit up,” I heard Mr. Searle plead. “I shouldn’t begin at this time of day. I should approach the subject like a gentleman.”
“Well, if you want very much to do something like a gentleman you’ve got a capital chance. Take your disappointment like a gentleman.”
I had finished my dinner and had become keenly interested in poor Mr. Searle’s unencouraging — or unencouraged — claim; so interested that I at last hated to hear his trouble reflected in his voice without being able — all respectfully! — to follow it in his face. I left my place, went over to the fire, took up the evening paper and established a post of observation behind it.
His cold counsellor was in the act of choosing a soft chop from the dish — an act accompanied by a great deal of prying88 and poking89 with that gentleman’s own fork. My disillusioned90 compatriot had pushed away his plate; he sat with his elbows on the table, gloomily nursing his head with his hands. His companion watched him and then seemed to wonder — to do Mr. Simmons justice — how he could least ungracefully give him up. “I say, Searle,”— and for my benefit, I think, taking me for a native ingenuous92 enough to be dazzled by his wit, he lifted his voice a little and gave it an ironical93 ring —“in this country it’s the inestimable privilege of a loyal citizen, under whatsoever94 stress of pleasure or of pain, to make a point of eating his dinner.”
Mr. Searle gave his plate another push. “Anything may happen now. I don’t care a straw.”
“You ought to care. Have another chop and you WILL care. Have some better tipple95. Take my advice!” Mr. Simmons went on.
My friend — I adopt that name for him — gazed from between his two hands coldly before him. “I’ve had enough of your advice.”
“A little more,” said Simmons mildly; “I shan’t trouble you again. What do you mean to do?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh come!”
“Nothing, nothing, nothing!”
“Nothing but starve. How about meeting expenses?”
“Why do you ask?” said my friend. “You don’t care.”
“My dear fellow, if you want to make me offer you twenty pounds you set most clumsily about it. You said just now I don’t know you,” Mr. Simmons went on. “Possibly. Come back with me then,” he said kindly96 enough, “and let’s improve our acquaintance.”
“I won’t go back. I shall never go back.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
Mr. Simmons thought it shrewdly over. “Well, you ARE sick!” he exclaimed presently. “All I can say is that if you’re working out a plan for cold poison, or for any other act of desperation, you had better give it right up. You can’t get a dose of the commonest kind of cold poison for nothing, you know. Look here, Searle”— and the worthy97 man made what struck me as a very decent appeal. “If you’ll consent to return home with me by the steamer of the twenty-third I’ll pay your passage down. More than that, I’ll pay for your beer.”
My poor gentleman met it. “I believe I never made up my mind to anything before, but I think it’s made up now. I shall stay here till I take my departure for a newer world than any patched-up newness of ours. It’s an odd feeling — I rather like it! What should I do at home?”
“You said just now you were homesick.”
“I meant I was sick for a home. Don’t I belong here? Haven’t I longed to get here all my life? Haven’t I counted the months and the years till I should be able to ‘go’ as we say? And now that I’ve ‘gone,’ that is that I’ve come, must I just back out? No, no, I’ll move on. I’m much obliged to you for your offer. I’ve enough money for the present. I’ve about my person some forty pounds’ worth of British gold, and the same amount, say, of the toughness of the heaven-sent idiot. They’ll see me through together! After they’re gone I shall lay my head in some English churchyard, beside some ivied tower, beneath an old gnarled black yew98.”
I had so far distinctly followed the dialogue; but at this point the landlord entered and, begging my pardon, would suggest that number 12, a most superior apartment, having now been vacated, it would give him pleasure if I would look in. I declined to look in, but agreed for number 12 at a venture and gave myself again, with dissimulation99, to my friends. They had got up; Simmons had put on his overcoat; he stood polishing his rusty100 black hat with his napkin. “Do you mean to go down to the place?” he asked.
“Possibly. I’ve thought of it so often that I should like to see it.”
“Shall you call on Mr. Searle?”
“Heaven forbid!”
“Something has just occurred to me,” Simmons pursued with a grin that made his upper lip look more than ever denuded101 by the razor and jerked the ugly ornament57 of his chin into the air. “There’s a certain Miss Searle, the old man’s sister.”
“Well?” my gentleman quavered.
“Well, sir! — you talk of moving on. You might move on the damsel.”
Mr. Searle frowned in silence and his companion gave him a tap on the stomach. “Line those ribs102 a bit first!” He blushed crimson103; his eyes filled with tears. “You ARE a coarse brute,” he said. The scene quite harrowed me, but I was prevented from seeing it through by the reappearance of the landlord on behalf of number 12. He represented to me that I ought in justice to him to come and see how tidy they HAD made it. Half an hour afterwards I was rattling104 along in a hansom toward Covent Garden, where I heard Madame Bosio in The Barber of Seville. On my return from the opera I went into the coffee-room; it had occurred to me I might catch there another glimpse of Mr. Searle. I was not disappointed. I found him seated before the fire with his head sunk on his breast: he slept, dreaming perhaps of Abijah Simmons. I watched him for some moments. His closed eyes, in the dim lamplight, looked even more helpless and resigned, and I seemed to see the fine grain of his nature in his unconscious mask. They say fortune comes while we sleep, and, standing105 there, I felt really tender enough — though otherwise most unqualified — to be poor Mr. Searle’s fortune. As I walked away I noted106 in one of the little prandial pews I have described the melancholy waiter, whose whiskered chin also reposed107 on the bulge108 of his shirt-front. I lingered a moment beside the old inn-yard in which, upon a time, the coaches and post-chaises found space to turn and disgorge. Above the dusky shaft109 of the enclosing galleries, where lounging lodgers110 and crumpled111 chambermaids and all the picturesque112 domesticity of a rattling tavern113 must have leaned on their elbows for many a year, I made out the far-off lurid114 twinkle of the London constellations115. At the foot of the stairs, enshrined in the glittering niche116 of her well-appointed bar, the landlady117 sat napping like some solemn idol118 amid votive brass119 and plate.
The next morning, not finding the subject of my benevolent120 curiosity in the coffee-room, I learned from the waiter that he had ordered breakfast in bed. Into this asylum121 I was not yet prepared to pursue him. I spent the morning in the streets, partly under pressure of business, but catching122 all kinds of romantic impressions by the way. To the searching American eye there is no tint123 of association with which the great grimy face of London doesn’t flush. As the afternoon approached, however, I began to yearn124 for some site more gracefully91 classic than what surrounded me, and, thinking over the excursions recommended to the ingenuous stranger, decided64 to take the train to Hampton Court. The day was the more propitious125 that it yielded just that dim subaqueous light which sleeps so fondly upon the English landscape.
At the end of an hour I found myself wandering through the apartments of the great palace. They follow each other in infinite succession, with no great variety of interest or aspect, but with persistent126 pomp and a fine specific effect. They are exactly of their various times. You pass from painted and panelled bedchambers and closets, anterooms, drawing-rooms, council-rooms, through king’s suite41, queen’s suite, prince’s suite, until you feel yourself move through the appointed hours and stages of some rigid monarchical127 day. On one side are the old monumental upholsteries, the big cold tarnished128 beds and canopies129, with the circumference130 of disapparelled royalty131 symbolised by a gilded132 balustrade, and the great carved and yawning chimney-places where dukes-inwaiting may have warmed their weary heels; on the other, in deep recesses133, rise the immense windows, the framed and draped embrasures where the sovereign whispered and favourites smiled, looking out on terraced gardens and misty135 park. The brown walls are dimly illumined by innumerable portraits of courtiers and captains, more especially with various members of the Batavian entourage of William of Orange, the restorer of the palace; with good store too of the lily-bosomed models of Lely and Kneller. The whole tone of this processional interior is singularly stale and sad. The tints136 of all things have both faded and darkened — you taste the chill of the place as you walk from room to room. It was still early in the day and in the season, and I flattered myself that I was the only visitor. This complacency, however, dropped at sight of a person standing motionless before a simpering countess of Sir Peter Lely’s creation. On hearing my footstep this victim of an evaporated spell turned his head and I recognised my fellow lodger of the Red Lion. I was apparently137 recognised as well; he looked as if he could scarce wait for me to be kind to him, and in fact didn’t wait. Seeing I had a catalogue he asked the name of the portrait. On my satisfying him he appealed, rather timidly, as to my opinion of the lady.
“Well,” said I, not quite timidly enough perhaps, “I confess she strikes me as no great matter.”
He remained silent and was evidently a little abashed138. As we strolled away he stole a sidelong glance of farewell at his leering shepherdess. To speak with him face to face was to feel keenly that he was no less interesting than infirm. We talked of our inn, of London, of the palace; he uttered his mind freely, but seemed to struggle with a weight of depression. It was an honest mind enough, with no great cultivation139 but with a certain natural love of excellent things. I foresaw that I should find him quite to the manner born — to ours; full of glimpses and responses, of deserts and desolations. His perceptions would be fine and his opinions pathetic; I should moreover take refuge from his sense of proportion in his sense of humour, and then refuge from THAT, ah me! — in what? On my telling him that I was a fellow citizen he stopped short, deeply touched, and, silently passing his arm into my own, suffered me to lead him through the other apartments and down into the gardens. A large gravelled platform stretches itself before the basement of the palace, taking the afternoon sun. Parts of the great structure are reserved for private use and habitation, occupied by state-pensioners, reduced gentlewomen in receipt of the Queen’s bounty141 and other deserving persons. Many of the apartments have their dependent gardens, and here and there, between the verdure-coated walls, you catch a glimpse of these somewhat stuffy142 bowers143. My companion and I measured more than once this long expanse, looking down on the floral figures of the rest of the affair and on the stoutly-woven tapestry144 of creeping plants that muffle145 the foundations of the huge red pile. I thought of the various images of old-world gentility which, early and late, must have strolled in front of it and felt the protection and security of the place. We peeped through an antique grating into one of the mossy cages and saw an old lady with a black mantilla on her head, a decanter of water in one hand and a crutch146 in the other, come forth147, followed by three little dogs and a cat, to sprinkle a plant. She would probably have had an opinion on the virtue148 of Queen Caroline. Feeling these things together made us quickly, made us extraordinarily149, intimate. My companion seemed to ache with his impression; he scowled150, all gently, as if it gave him pain. I proposed at last that we should dine somewhere on the spot and take a late train to town. We made our way out of the gardens into the adjoining village, where we entered an inn which I pronounced, very sincerely, exactly what we wanted. Mr. Searle had approached our board as shyly as if it had been a cold bath; but, gradually warming to his work, he declared at the end of half an hour that for the first time in a month he enjoyed his victuals151.
“I’m afraid you’re rather out of health,” I risked.
“Yes, sir — I’m an incurable152.”
The little village of Hampton Court stands clustered about the entrance of Bushey Park, and after we had dined we lounged along into the celebrated153 avenue of horse-chestnuts. There is a rare emotion, familiar to every intelligent traveller, in which the mind seems to swallow the sum total of its impressions at a gulp154. You take in the whole place, whatever it be. You feel England, you feel Italy, and the sensation involves for the moment a kind of thrill. I had known it from time to time in Italy and had opened my soul to it as to the spirit of the Lord. Since my landing in England I had been waiting for it to arrive. A bottle of tolerable Burgundy, at dinner, had perhaps unlocked to it the gates of sense; it arrived now with irresistible155 force. Just the scene around me was the England of one’s early reveries. Over against us, amid the ripeness of its gardens, the dark red residence, with its formal facings and its vacant windows, seemed to make the past definite and massive; the little village, nestling between park and palace, around a patch of turfy common, with its taverns156 of figurative names, its ivy-towered church, its mossy roofs, looked like the property of a feudal157 lord. It was in this dark composite light that I had read the British classics; it was this mild moist air that had blown from the pages of the poets; while I seemed to feel the buried generations in the dense158 and elastic159 sod. And that I must have testified in some form or other to what I have called my thrill I gather, remembering it, from a remark of my companion’s.
“You’ve the advantage over me in coming to all this with an educated eye. You already know what old things can be. I’ve never known it but by report. I’ve always fancied I should like it. In a small way at home, of course, I did try to stand by my idea of it. I must be a conservative by nature. People at home used to call me a cockney and a fribble. But it wasn’t true,” he went on; “if it had been I should have made my way over here long ago: before — before —” He paused, and his head dropped sadly on his breast.
The bottle of Burgundy had loosened his tongue; I had but to choose my time for learning his story. Something told me that I had gained his confidence and that, so far as attention and attitude might go, I was “in” for responsibilities. But somehow I didn’t dread160 them. “Before you lost your health,” I suggested.
“Before I lost my health,” he answered. “And my property — the little I had. And my ambition. And any power to take myself seriously.”
“Come!” I cried. “You shall recover everything. This tonic161 English climate will wind you up in a month. And THEN see how you’ll take yourself — and how I shall take you!”
“Oh,” he gratefully smiled, “I may turn to dust in your hands! I should like,” he presently pursued, “to be an old genteel pensioner140, lodged over there in the palace and spending my days in maundering about these vistas162. I should go every morning, at the hour when it gets the sun, into that long gallery where all those pretty women of Lely’s are hung — I know you despise them! — and stroll up and down and say something kind to them. Poor precious forsaken163 creatures! So flattered and courted in their day, so neglected now! Offering up their shoulders and ringlets and smiles to that musty deadly silence!”
I laid my hand on my friend’s shoulder. “Oh sir, you’re all right!”
Just at this moment there came cantering down the shallow glade164 of the avenue a young girl on a fine black horse — one of those little budding gentlewomen, perfectly165 mounted and equipped, who form to alien eyes one of the prettiest incidents of English scenery. She had distanced her servant and, as she came abreast166 of us, turned slightly in her saddle and glanced back at him. In the movement she dropped the hunting-crop with which she was armed; whereupon she reined167 up and looked shyly at us and at the implement168. “This is something better than a Lely,” I said. Searle hastened forward, picked up the crop and, with a particular courtesy that became him, handed it back to the rider. Fluttered and blushing she reached forward, took it with a quick sweet sound, and the next moment was bounding over the quiet turf. Searle stood watching her; the servant, as he passed us, touched his hat. When my friend turned toward me again I saw that he too was blushing. “Oh sir, you’re all right,” I repeated.
At a short distance from where we had stopped was an old stone bench. We went and sat down on it and, as the sun began to sink, watched the light mist powder itself with gold. “We ought to be thinking of the train back to London, I suppose,” I at last said.
“Oh hang the train!” sighed my companion.
“Willingly. There could be no better spot than this to feel the English evening stand still.” So we lingered, and the twilight169 hung about us, strangely clear in spite of the thickness of the air. As we sat there came into view an apparition170 unmistakeable from afar as an immemorial vagrant171 — the disowned, in his own rich way, of all the English ages. As he approached us he slackened pace and finally halted, touching172 his cap. He was a man of middle age, clad in a greasy173 bonnet174 with false-looking ear-locks depending from its sides. Round his neck was a grimy red scarf, tucked into his waistcoat; his coat and trousers had a remote affinity175 with those of a reduced hostler. In one hand he had a stick; on his arm he bore a tattered176 basket, with a handful of withered177 vegetables at the bottom. His face was pale haggard and degraded beyond description — as base as a counterfeit178 coin, yet as modelled somehow as a tragic179 mask. He too, like everything else, had a history. From what height had he fallen, from what depth had he risen? He was the perfect symbol of generated constituted baseness; and I felt before him in presence of a great artist or actor.
“For God’s sake, gentlemen,” he said in the raucous180 tone of weather-beaten poverty, the tone of chronic181 sore-throat exacerbated182 by perpetual gin, “for God’s sake, gentlemen, have pity on a poor fern-collector!”— turning up his stale daisies. “Food hasn’t passed my lips, gentlemen, for the last three days.” We gaped183 at him and at each other, and to our imagination his appeal had almost the force of a command. “I wonder if half-a-crown would help?” I privately184 wailed185. And our fasting botanist186 went limping away through the park with the grace of controlled stupefaction still further enriching his outline.
“I feel as if I had seen my Doppelganger,” said Searle. “He reminds me of myself. What am I but a mere187 figure in the landscape, a wandering minstrel or picker of daisies?”
“What are you ‘anyway,’ my friend?” I thereupon took occasion to ask. “Who are you? kindly tell me.”
The colour rose again to his pale face and I feared I had offended him. He poked188 a moment at the sod with the point of his umbrella before answering. “Who am I?” he said at last. “My name is Clement Searle. I was born in New York, and that’s the beginning and the end of me.”
“Ah not the end!” I made bold to plead.
“Then it’s because I HAVE no end — any more than an ill-written book. I just stop anywhere; which means I’m a failure,” the poor man all lucidly189 and unreservedly pursued: “a failure, as hopeless and helpless, sir, as any that ever swallowed up the slender investments of the widow and the orphan190. I don’t pay five cents on the dollar. What I might have been — once! — there’s nothing left to show. I was rotten before I was ripe. To begin with, certainly, I wasn’t a fountain of wisdom. All the more reason for a definite channel — for having a little character and purpose. But I hadn’t even a little. I had nothing but nice tastes, as they call them, and fine sympathies and sentiments. Take a turn through New York today and you’ll find the tattered remnants of these things dangling191 on every bush and fluttering in every breeze; the men to whom I lent money, the women to whom I made love, the friends I trusted, the follies192 I invented, the poisonous fumes of pleasure amid which nothing was worth a thought but the manhood they stifled193! It was my fault that I believed in pleasure here below. I believe in it still, but as I believe in the immortality194 of the soul. The soul is immortal195, certainly — if you’ve got one; but most people haven’t. Pleasure would be right if it were pleasure straight through; but it never is. My taste was to be the best in the world; well, perhaps it was. I had a little money; it went the way of my little wit. Here in my pocket I have the scant196 dregs of it. I should tell you I was the biggest kind of ass20. Just now that description would flatter me; it would assume there’s something left of me. But the ghost of a donkey — what’s that? I think,” he went on with a charming turn and as if striking off his real explanation, “I should have been all right in a world arranged on different lines. Before heaven, sir — whoever you are — I’m in practice so absurdly tender-hearted that I can afford to say it: I entered upon life a perfect gentleman. I had the love of old forms and pleasant rites134, and I found them nowhere — found a world all hard lines and harsh lights, without shade, without composition, as they say of pictures, without the lovely mystery of colour. To furnish colour I melted down the very substance of my own soul. I went about with my brush, touching up and toning down; a very pretty chiaroscuro197 you’ll find in my track! Sitting here in this old park, in this old country, I feel that I hover198 on the misty verge of what might have been! I should have been born here and not there; here my makeshift distinctions would have found things they’d have been true of. How it was I never got free is more than I can say. It might have cut the knot, but the knot was too tight. I was always out of health or in debt or somehow desperately199 dangling. Besides, I had a horror of the great black sickening sea. A year ago I was reminded of the existence of an old claim to an English estate, which has danced before the eyes of my family, at odd moments, any time these eighty years. I confess it’s a bit of a muddle200 and a tangle201, and am by no means sure that to this hour I’ve got the hang of it. You look as if you had a clear head: some other time, if you consent, we’ll have a go at it, such as it is, together. Poverty was staring me in the face; I sat down and tried to commit the ‘points’ of our case to memory, as I used to get nine-times-nine by heart as a boy. I dreamed of it for six months, half-expecting to wake up some fine morning and hear through a latticed casement202 the cawing of an English rookery. A couple of months ago there came out to England on business of his own a man who once got me out of a dreadful mess (not that I had hurt anyone but myself), a legal practitioner203 in our courts, a very rough diamond, but with a great deal of FLAIR204, as they say in New York. It was with him yesterday you saw me dining. He undertook, as he called it, to ‘nose round’ and see if anything could be made of our questionable205 but possible show. The matter had never seriously been taken up. A month later I got a letter from Simmons assuring me that it seemed a very good show indeed and that he should be greatly surprised if I were unable to do something. This was the greatest push I had ever got in my life; I took a deliberate step, for the first time; I sailed for England. I’ve been here three days: they’ve seemed three months. After keeping me waiting for thirty-six hours my legal adviser206 makes his appearance last night and states to me, with his mouth full of mutton, that I haven’t a leg to stand on, that my claim is moonshine, and that I must do penance207 and take a ticket for six more days of purgatory208 with his presence thrown in. My friend, my friend — shall I say I was disappointed? I’m already resigned. I didn’t really believe I had any case. I felt in my deeper consciousness that it was the crowning illusion of a life of illusions. Well, it was a pretty one. Poor legal adviser! — I forgive him with all my heart. But for him I shouldn’t be sitting in this place, in this air, under these impressions. This is a world I could have got on with beautifully. There’s an immense charm in its having been kept for the last. After it nothing else would have been tolerable. I shall now have a month of it, I hope, which won’t be long enough for it to “go back on me. There’s one thing!”— and here, pausing, he laid his hand on mine; I rose and stood before him —“I wish it were possible you should be with me to the end.”
“I promise you to leave you only when you kick me downstairs.” But I suggested my terms. “It must be on condition of your omitting from your conversation this intolerable flavour of mortality. I know nothing of ‘ends.’ I’m all for beginnings.”
He kept on me his sad weak eyes. Then with a faint smile: “Don’t cut down a man you find hanging. He has had a reason for it. I’m bankrupt.”
“Oh health’s money!” I said. “Get well, and the rest will take care of itself. I’m interested in your questionable claim — it’s the question that’s the charm; and pretenders, to anything big enough, have always been, for me, an attractive class. Only their first duty’s to be gallant209.”
“Their first duty’s to understand their own points and to know their own mind,” he returned with hopeless lucidity210. “Don’t ask me to climb our family tree now,” he added; “I fear I haven’t the head for it. I’ll try some day — if it will bear my weight; or yours added to mine. There’s no doubt, however, that we, as they say, go back. But I know nothing of business. If I were to take the matter in hand I should break in two the poor little silken thread from which everything hangs. In a better world than this I think I should be listened to. But the wind doesn’t set to ideal justice. There’s no doubt that a hundred years ago we suffered a palpable wrong. Yet we made no appeal at the time, and the dust of a century now lies heaped upon our silence. Let it rest!”
“What then,” I asked, “is the estimated value of your interest?”
“We were instructed from the first to accept a compromise. Compared with the whole property our ideas have been small. We were once advised in the sense of a hundred and thirty thousand dollars. Why a hundred and thirty I’m sure I don’t know. Don’t beguile211 me into figures.”
“Allow me one more question,” I said. “Who’s actually in possession?”
“A certain Mr. Richard Searle. I know nothing about him.”
“He’s in some way related to you?”
“Our great-grandfathers were half-brothers. What does that make us?”
“Twentieth cousins, say. And where does your twentieth cousin live?”
“At a place called Lackley — in Middleshire.”
I thought it over. “Well, suppose we look up Lackley in Middleshire!”
He got straight up. “Go and see it?”
“Go and see it.”
“Well,” he said, “with you I’ll go anywhere.”
On our return to town we determined to spend three days there together and then proceed to our errand. We were as conscious one as the other of that deeper mystic appeal made by London to those superstitious212 pilgrims who feel it the mother-city of their race, the distributing heart of their traditional life. Certain characteristics of the dusky Babylon, certain aspects, phases, features, “say” more to the American spiritual ear than anything else in Europe. The influence of these things on Searle it charmed me to note. His observation I soon saw to be, as I pronounced it to him, searching and caressing213. His almost morbid appetite for any over-scoring of time, well-nigh extinct from long inanition, threw the flush of its revival214 into his face and his talk.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
determined
|
|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
interval
|
|
| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
resolute
|
|
| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
lodged
|
|
| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
inevitably
|
|
| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
descended
|
|
| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
bespoke
|
|
| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
poke
|
|
| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
solitary
|
|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
destined
|
|
| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
upheaval
|
|
| n.胀起，(地壳)的隆起；剧变，动乱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
enjoyment
|
|
| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
continental
|
|
| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
subdivided
|
|
| 再分，细分( subdivide的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
compartments
|
|
| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
perpendicular
|
|
| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
stature
|
|
| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
ledge
|
|
| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
rigid
|
|
| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
ass
|
|
| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
friction
|
|
| n.摩擦，摩擦力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
lucid
|
|
| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
wigged
|
|
| adj.戴假发的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
fumes
|
|
| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
scotch
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
majesty
|
|
| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
overflowing
|
|
| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
looms
|
|
| n.织布机( loom的名词复数 )v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的第三人称单数 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
archaic
|
|
| adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的，已不通用的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
spinach
|
|
| n.菠菜 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
penitence
|
|
| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
bracing
|
|
| adj.令人振奋的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
dorsal
|
|
| adj.背部的，背脊的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
repose
|
|
| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
joints
|
|
| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
lodger
|
|
| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
indirectly
|
|
| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
remarkable
|
|
| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
turbid
|
|
| adj.混浊的，泥水的，浓的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
suite
|
|
| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
bilious
|
|
| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
complexion
|
|
| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
aquiline
|
|
| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
languished
|
|
| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
bristled
|
|
| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
attenuated
|
|
| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
droop
|
|
| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
exhausted
|
|
| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
indigenous
|
|
| adj.土产的，土生土长的，本地的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
conversed
|
|
| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
extravagant
|
|
| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
jaw
|
|
| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
putative
|
|
| adj.假定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
dingy
|
|
| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
ornaments
|
|
| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
ornament
|
|
| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
exclamation
|
|
| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
momentary
|
|
| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
crumbs
|
|
| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
scattered
|
|
| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
discretion
|
|
| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
hesitation
|
|
| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
considerably
|
|
| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
verge
|
|
| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
permanently
|
|
| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
clement
|
|
| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
clatter
|
|
| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
glimmer
|
|
| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
flicker
|
|
| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
gust
|
|
| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
collapsed
|
|
| adj.倒塌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
rattled
|
|
| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
partially
|
|
| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
demon
|
|
| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
perversity
|
|
| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
rogue
|
|
| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
morbid
|
|
| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
horrified
|
|
| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
bugs
|
|
| adj.疯狂的，发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 )；病菌；虫子；[计算机]（制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的）错误 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
liking
|
|
| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
odds
|
|
| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
horrid
|
|
| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
ambiguity
|
|
| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
solicitor
|
|
| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
usurping
|
|
| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的现在分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
prying
|
|
| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
poking
|
|
| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
disillusioned
|
|
| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
gracefully
|
|
| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
ingenuous
|
|
| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
ironical
|
|
| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
whatsoever
|
|
| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
tipple
|
|
| n.常喝的酒；v.不断喝，饮烈酒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
worthy
|
|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
yew
|
|
| n.紫杉属树木 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
dissimulation
|
|
| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
rusty
|
|
| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
denuded
|
|
| adj.[医]变光的，裸露的v.使赤裸( denude的过去式和过去分词 )；剥光覆盖物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
ribs
|
|
| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
crimson
|
|
| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
rattling
|
|
| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
noted
|
|
| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
reposed
|
|
| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
bulge
|
|
| n.突出，膨胀，激增；vt.突出，膨胀 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
shaft
|
|
| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
lodgers
|
|
| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
crumpled
|
|
| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
picturesque
|
|
| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
tavern
|
|
| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
lurid
|
|
| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
constellations
|
|
| n.星座( constellation的名词复数 )；一群杰出人物；一系列（相关的想法、事物）；一群（相关的人） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
niche
|
|
| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
landlady
|
|
| n.女房东，女地主 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
idol
|
|
| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
brass
|
|
| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
benevolent
|
|
| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
asylum
|
|
| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
catching
|
|
| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
tint
|
|
| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
yearn
|
|
| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
propitious
|
|
| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
persistent
|
|
| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
monarchical
|
|
| adj. 国王的，帝王的，君主的，拥护君主制的 =monarchic | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
tarnished
|
|
| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
canopies
|
|
| （宝座或床等上面的）华盖( canopy的名词复数 )； （飞行器上的）座舱罩； 任何悬于上空的覆盖物； 森林中天棚似的树荫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
circumference
|
|
| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
royalty
|
|
| n.皇家，皇族 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
gilded
|
|
| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
recesses
|
|
| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
rites
|
|
| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
misty
|
|
| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
tints
|
|
| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
abashed
|
|
| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
cultivation
|
|
| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
pensioner
|
|
| n.领养老金的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
141
bounty
|
|
| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
142
stuffy
|
|
| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
143
bowers
|
|
| n.（女子的）卧室( bower的名词复数 )；船首锚；阴凉处；鞠躬的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
144
tapestry
|
|
| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
145
muffle
|
|
| v.围裹；抑制；发低沉的声音 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
146
crutch
|
|
| n.T字形拐杖；支持，依靠，精神支柱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
147
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
148
virtue
|
|
| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
149
extraordinarily
|
|
| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
150
scowled
|
|
| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
151
victuals
|
|
| n.食物；食品 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
152
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： |
|
|
|
|
153
celebrated
|
|
| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
154
gulp
|
|
| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
155
irresistible
|
|
| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
156
taverns
|
|
| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
157
feudal
|
|
| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
158
dense
|
|
| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
159
elastic
|
|
| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
160
dread
|
|
| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
161
tonic
|
|
| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
162
vistas
|
|
| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
163
Forsaken
|
|
| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
164
glade
|
|
| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
165
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
166
abreast
|
|
| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
167
reined
|
|
| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的过去式和过去分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
168
implement
|
|
| n.(pl.)工具，器具；vt.实行，实施，执行 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
169
twilight
|
|
| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
170
apparition
|
|
| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
171
vagrant
|
|
| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
172
touching
|
|
| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
173
greasy
|
|
| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
174
bonnet
|
|
| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
175
affinity
|
|
| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
176
tattered
|
|
| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
177
withered
|
|
| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
178
counterfeit
|
|
| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
179
tragic
|
|
| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
180
raucous
|
|
| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
181
chronic
|
|
| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
182
exacerbated
|
|
| v.使恶化，使加重( exacerbate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
183
gaped
|
|
| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
184
privately
|
|
| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
185
wailed
|
|
| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
186
botanist
|
|
| n.植物学家 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
187
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
188
poked
|
|
| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
189
lucidly
|
|
| adv.清透地，透明地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
190
orphan
|
|
| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
191
dangling
|
|
| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
192
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： |
|
|
|
|
193
stifled
|
|
| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
194
immortality
|
|
| n.不死，不朽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
195
immortal
|
|
| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
196
scant
|
|
| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
197
chiaroscuro
|
|
| n.明暗对照法 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
198
hover
|
|
| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
199
desperately
|
|
| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
200
muddle
|
|
| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
201
tangle
|
|
| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
202
casement
|
|
| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
203
practitioner
|
|
| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
204
flair
|
|
| n.天赋，本领，才华；洞察力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
205
questionable
|
|
| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
206
adviser
|
|
| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
207
penance
|
|
| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
208
purgatory
|
|
| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
209
gallant
|
|
| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
210
lucidity
|
|
| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
211
beguile
|
|
| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
212
superstitious
|
|
| adj.迷信的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
213
caressing
|
|
| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
214
revival
|
|
| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |