Chapter XXIV
It would certainly have been hard to see what injury could arise to her from the visit she presently paid to Mr. Osmond’s hill-top. Nothing could have been more charming than this occasion — a soft afternoon in the full maturity1 of the Tuscan spring. The companions drove out of the Roman Gate, beneath the enormous blank superstructure which crowns the fine clear arch of that portal and makes it nakedly impressive, and wound between high-walled lanes into which the wealth of blossoming orchards2 over-drooped and flung a fragrance3, until they reached the small superurban piazza4, of crooked5 shape, where the long brown wall of the villa6 occupied in part by Mr. Osmond formed a principal, or at least a very imposing7, object. Isabel went with her friend through a wide, high court, where a clear shadow rested below and a pair of light-arched galleries, facing each other above, caught the upper sunshine upon their slim columns and the flowering plants in which they were dressed. There was something grave and strong in the place; it looked somehow as if, once you were in, you would need an act of energy to get out. For Isabel, however, there was of course as yet no thought of getting out, but only of advancing. Mr. Osmond met her in the cold ante-chamber — it was cold even in the month of May — and ushered8 her, with her conductress, into the apartment to which we have already been introduced. Madame Merle was in front, and while Isabel lingered a little, talking with him, she went forward familiarly and greeted two persons who were seated in the saloon. One of these was little Pansy, on whom she bestowed9 a kiss; the other was a lady whom Mr. Osmond indicated to Isabel as his sister, the Countess Gemini. “And that’s my little girl,” he said, “who has just come out of her convent.”
Pansy had on a scant10 white dress, and her fair hair was neatly11 arranged in a net; she wore her small shoes tied sandal-fashion about her ankles. She made Isabel a little conventual curtsey and then came to be kissed. The Countess Gemini simply nodded without getting up: Isabel could see she was a woman of high fashion. She was thin and dark and not at all pretty, having features that suggested some tropical bird — a long beak-like nose, small, quickly-moving eyes and a mouth and chin that receded12 extremely. Her expression, however, thanks to various intensities13 of emphasis and wonder, of horror and joy, was not inhuman14, and, as regards her appearance, it was plain she understood herself and made the most of her points. Her attire15, voluminous and delicate, bristling16 with elegance17, had the look of shimmering18 plumage, and her attitudes were as light and sudden as those of a creature who perched upon twigs19. She had a great deal of manner; Isabel, who had never known any one with so much manner, immediately classed her as the most affected20 of women. She remembered that Ralph had not recommended her as an acquaintance; but she was ready to acknowledge that to a casual view the Countess Gemini revealed no depths. Her demonstrations21 suggested the violent waving of some flag of general truce22 — white silk with fluttering streamers.
“You’ll believe I’m glad to see you when I tell you it’s only because I knew you were to be here that I came myself. I don’t come and see my brother — I make him come and see me. This hill of his is impossible — I don’t see what possesses him. Really, Osmond, you’ll be the ruin of my horses some day, and if it hurts them you’ll have to give me another pair. I heard them wheezing23 to-day; I assure you I did. It’s very disagreeable to hear one’s horses wheezing when one’s sitting in the carriage; it sounds too as if they weren’t what they should be. But I’ve always had good horses; whatever else I may have lacked I’ve always managed that. My husband doesn’t know much, but I think he knows a horse. In general Italians don’t, but my husband goes in, according to his poor light, for everything English. My horses are English — so it’s all the greater pity they should be ruined. I must tell you,” she went on, directly addressing Isabel, “that Osmond doesn’t often invite me; I don’t think he likes to have me. It was quite my own idea, coming to-day. I like to see new people, and I’m sure you’re very new. But don’t sit there; that chair’s not what it looks. There are some very good seats here, but there are also some horrors.”
These remarks were delivered with a series of little jerks and pecks, of roulades of shrillness24, and in an accent that was as some fond recall of good English, or rather of good American, in adversity.
“I don’t like to have you, my dear?” said her brother. “I’m sure you’re invaluable25.”
“I don’t see any horrors anywhere,” Isabel returned, looking about her. “Everything seems to me beautiful and precious.”
“I’ve a few good things,” Mr. Osmond allowed; “indeed I’ve nothing very bad. But I’ve not what I should have liked.”
He stood there a little awkwardly, smiling and glancing about; his manner was an odd mixture of the detached and the involved. He seemed to hint that nothing but the right “values” was of any consequence. Isabel made a rapid induction26: perfect simplicity27 was not the badge of his family. Even the little girl from the convent, who, in her prim28 white dress, with her small submissive face and her hands locked before her, stood there as if she were about to partake of her first communion, even Mr. Osmond’s diminutive29 daughter had a kind of finish that was not entirely30 artless.
“You’d have liked a few things from the Uffzi and the Pitti — that’s what you’d have liked,” said Madame Merle.
“Poor Osmond, with his old curtains and crucifixes!” the Countess Gemini exclaimed: she appeared to call her brother only by his family-name. Her ejaculation had no particular object; she smiled at Isabel as she made it and looked at her from head to foot.
Her brother had not heard her; he seemed to be thinking what he could say to Isabel. “Won’t you have some tea? — you must be very tired,” he at last bethought himself of remarking.
“No indeed, I’m not tired; what have I done to tire me?” Isabel felt a certain need of being very direct, of pretending to nothing; there was something in the air, in her general impression of things — she could hardly have said what it was — that deprived her of all disposition31 to put herself forward. The place, the occasion, the combination of people, signified more than lay on the surface; she would try to understand — she would not simply utter graceful32 platitudes33. Poor Isabel was doubtless not aware that many women would have uttered graceful platitudes to cover the working of their observation. It must be confessed that her pride was a trifle alarmed. A man she had heard spoken of in terms that excited interest and who was evidently capable of distinguishing himself, had invited her, a young lady not lavish35 of her favours, to come to his house. Now that she had done so the burden of the entertainment rested naturally on his wit. Isabel was not rendered less observant, and for the moment, we judge, she was not rendered more indulgent, by perceiving that Mr. Osmond carried his burden less complacently36 than might have been expected. “What a fool I was to have let myself so needlessly in —!” she could fancy his exclaiming to himself.
“You’ll be tired when you go home, if he shows you all his bibelots and gives you a lecture on each,” said the Countess Gemini.
“I’m not afraid of that; but if I’m tired I shall at least have learned something.”
“Very little, I suspect. But my sister’s dreadfully afraid of learning anything,” said Mr. Osmond.
“Oh, I confess to that; I don’t want to know anything more — I know too much already. The more you know the more unhappy you are.”
“You should not undervalue knowledge before Pansy, who has not finished her education,” Madame Merle interposed with a smile. “Pansy will never know any harm,” said the child’s father. “Pansy’s a little convent-flower.”
“Oh, the convents, the convents!” cried the Countess with a flutter of her ruffles38. “Speak to me of the convents! You may learn anything there; I’m a convent-flower myself. I don’t pretend to be good, but the nuns39 do. Don’t you see what I mean?” she went on, appealing to Isabel.
Isabel was not sure she saw, and she answered that she was very bad at following arguments. The Countess then declared that she herself detested40 arguments, but that this was her brother’s taste — he would always discuss. “For me,” she said, “one should like a thing or one shouldn’t; one can’t like everything, of course. But one shouldn’t attempt to reason it out — you never know where it may lead you. There are some very good feelings that may have bad reasons, don’t you know? And then there are very bad feelings, sometimes, that have good reasons. Don’t you see what I mean? I don’t care anything about reasons, but I know what I like.”
“Ah, that’s the great thing,” said Isabel, smiling and suspecting that her acquaintance with this lightly flitting personage would not lead to intellectual repose41. If the Countess objected to argument Isabel at this moment had as little taste for it, and she put out her hand to Pansy with a pleasant sense that such a gesture committed her to nothing that would admit of a divergence42 of views. Gilbert Osmond apparently43 took a rather hopeless view of his sister’s tone; he turned the conversation to another topic. He presently sat down on the other side of his daughter, who had shyly brushed Isabel’s fingers with her own; but he ended by drawing her out of her chair and making her stand between his knees, leaning against him while he passed his arm round her slimness. The child fixed44 her eyes on Isabel with a still, disinterested45 gaze which seemed void of an intention, yet conscious of an attraction. Mr. Osmond talked of many things; Madame Merle had said he could be agreeable when he chose, and to-day, after a little, he appeared not only to have chosen but to have determined46. Madame Merle and the Countess Gemini sat a little apart, conversing47 in the effortless manner of persons who knew each other well enough to take their ease; but every now and then Isabel heard the Countess, at something said by her companion, plunge48 into the latter’s lucidity49 as a poodle splashes after a thrown stick. It was as if Madame Merle were seeing how far she would go. Mr. Osmond talked of Florence, of Italy, of the pleasure of living in that country and of the abatements to the pleasure. There were both satisfactions and drawbacks; the drawbacks were numerous; strangers were too apt to see such a world as all romantic. It met the case soothingly50 for the human, for the social failure — by which he meant the people who couldn’t “realise,” as they said, on their sensibility: they could keep it about them there, in their poverty, without ridicule51, as you might keep an heirloom or an inconvenient52 entailed53 place that brought you in nothing. Thus there were advantages in living in the country which contained the greatest sum of beauty. Certain impressions you could get only there. Others, favourable54 to life, you never got, and you got some that were very bad. But from time to time you got one of a quality that made up for everything. Italy, all the same, had spoiled a great many people; he was even fatuous55 enough to believe at times that he himself might have been a better man if he had spent less of his life there. It made one idle and dilettantish56 and second-rate; it had no discipline for the character, didn’t cultivate in you, otherwise expressed, the successful social and other “cheek” that flourished in Paris and London. “We’re sweetly provincial57,” said Mr. Osmond, “and I’m perfectly58 aware that I myself am as rusty59 as a key that has no lock to fit it. It polishes me up a little to talk with you — not that I venture to pretend I can turn that very complicated lock I suspect your intellect of being! But you’ll be going away before I’ve seen you three times, and I shall perhaps never see you after that. That’s what it is to live in a country that people come to. When they’re disagreeable here it’s bad enough; when they’re agreeable it’s still worse. As soon as you like them they’re off again! I’ve been deceived too often; I’ve ceased to form attachments60, to permit myself to feel attractions. You mean to stay — to settle? That would be really comfortable. Ah yes, your aunt’s a sort of guarantee; I believe she may be depended on. Oh, she’s an old Florentine; I mean literally61 an old one; not a modern outsider. She’s a contemporary of the Medici; she must have been present at the burning of Savonarola, and I’m not sure she didn’t throw a handful of chips into the flame. Her face is very much like some faces in the early pictures; little, dry, definite faces that must have had a good deal of expression, but almost always the same one. Indeed I can show you her portrait in a fresco62 of Ghirlandaio’s. I hope you don’t object to my speaking that way of your aunt, eh? I’ve an idea you don’t. Perhaps you think that’s even worse. I assure you there’s no want of respect in it, to either of you. You know I’m a particular admirer of Mrs. Touchett.”
While Isabel’s host exerted himself to entertain her in this somewhat confidential63 fashion she looked occasionally at Madame Merle, who met her eyes with an inattentive smile in which, on this occasion, there was no infelicitous65 intimation that our heroine appeared to advantage. Madame Merle eventually proposed to the Countess Gemini that they should go into the garden, and the Countess, rising and shaking out her feathers, began to rustle66 toward the door. “Poor Miss Archer67!” she exclaimed, surveying the other group with expressive68 compassion69. “She has been brought quite into the family.”
“Miss Archer can certainly have nothing but sympathy for a family to which you belong,” Mr. Osmond answered, with a laugh which, though it had something of a mocking ring, had also a finer patience.
“I don’t know what you mean by that! I’m sure she’ll see no harm in me but what you tell her. I’m better than he says, Miss Archer,” the Countess went on. “I’m only rather an idiot and a bore. Is that all he has said? Ah then, you keep him in good-humour. Has he opened on one of his favourite subjects? I give you notice that there are two or three that he treats a fond. In that case you had better take off your bonnet70.”
“I don’t think I know what Mr. Osmond’s favourite subjects are,” said Isabel, who had risen to her feet.
The Countess assumed for an instant an attitude of intense meditation71, pressing one of her hands, with the finger-tips gathered together, to her forehead. “I’ll tell you in a moment. One’s Machiavelli; the other’s Vittoria Colonna; the next is Metastasio.”
“Ah, with me,” said Madame Merle, passing her arm into the Countess Gemini’s as if to guide her course to the garden, “Mr. Osmond’s never so historical.”
“Oh you,” the Countess answered as they moved away, “you yourself are Machiavelli — you yourself are Vittoria Colonna!”
“We shall hear next that poor Madame Merle is Metastasio!” Gilbert Osmond resignedly sighed.
Isabel had got up on the assumption that they too were to go into the garden; but her host stood there with no apparent inclination72 to leave the room, his hands in the pockets of his jacket and his daughter, who had now locked her arm into one of his own, clinging to him and looking up while her eyes moved from his own face to Isabel’s. Isabel waited, with a certain unuttered contentedness73, to have her movements directed; she liked Mr. Osmond’s talk, his company: she had what always gave her a very private thrill, the consciousness of a new relation. Through the open doors of the great room she saw Madame Merle and the Countess stroll across the fine grass of the garden; then she turned, and her eyes wandered over the things scattered74 about her. The understanding had been that Mr. Osmond should show her his treasures; his pictures and cabinets all looked like treasures. Isabel after a moment went toward one of the pictures to see it better; but just as she had done so he said to her abruptly75: “Miss Archer, what do you think of my sister?”
She faced him with some surprise. “Ah, don’t ask me that — I’ve seen your sister too little.”
“Yes, you’ve seen her very little; but you must have observed that there is not a great deal of her to see. What do you think of our family tone?” he went on with his cool smile. “I should like to know how it strikes a fresh, unprejudiced mind. I know what you’re going to say — you’ve had almost no observation of it. Of course this is only a glimpse. But just take notice, in future, if you have a chance. I sometimes think we’ve got into a rather bad way, living off here among things and people not our own, without responsibilities or attachments, with nothing to hold us together or keep us up; marrying foreigners, forming artificial tastes, playing tricks with our natural mission. Let me add, though, that I say that much more for myself than for my sister. She’s a very honest lady — more so than she seems. She’s rather unhappy, and as she’s not of a serious turn she doesn’t tend to show it tragically76: she shows it comically instead. She has got a horrid77 husband, though I’m not sure she makes the best of him. Of course, however, a horrid husband’s an awkward thing. Madame Merle gives her excellent advice, but it’s a good deal like giving a child a dictionary to learn a language with. He can look out the words, but he can’t put them together. My sister needs a grammar, but unfortunately she’s not grammatical. Pardon my troubling you with these details; my sister was very right in saying you’ve been taken into the family. Let me take down that picture; you want more light.”
He took down the picture, carried it toward the window, related some curious facts about it. She looked at the other works of art, and he gave her such further information as might appear most acceptable to a young lady making a call on a summer afternoon. His pictures, his medallions and tapestries78 were interesting; but after a while Isabel felt the owner much more so, and independently of them, thickly as they seemed to overhang him. He resembled no one she had ever seen; most of the people she knew might be divided into groups of half a dozen specimens80. There were one or two exceptions to this; she could think for instance of no group that would contain her aunt Lydia. There were other people who were, relatively81 speaking, original — original, as one might say, by courtesy such as Mr. Goodwood, as her cousin Ralph, as Henrietta Stackpole, as Lord Warburton, as Madame Merle. But in essentials, when one came to look at them, these individuals belonged to types already present to her mind. Her mind contained no class offering a natural place to Mr. Osmond — he was a specimen79 apart. It was not that she recognised all these truths at the hour, but they were falling into order before her. For the moment she only said to herself that this “new relation” would perhaps prove her very most distinguished82. Madame Merle had had that note of rarity, but what quite other power it immediately gained when sounded by a man! It was not so much what he said and did, but rather what he withheld83, that marked him for her as by one of those signs of the highly curious that he was showing her on the underside of old plates and in the corner of sixteenth-century drawings: he indulged in no striking deflections from common usage, he was an original without being an eccentric. She had never met a person of so fine a grain. The peculiarity84 was physical, to begin with, and it extended to impalpabilities. His dense85, delicate hair, his overdrawn86, retouched features, his clear complexion87, ripe without being coarse, the very evenness of the growth of his beard, and that light, smooth slenderness of structure which made the movement of a single one of his fingers produce the effect of an expressive gesture — these personal points struck our sensitive young woman as signs of quality, of intensity88, somehow as promises of interest. He was certainly fastidious and critical; he was probably irritable89. His sensibility had governed him — possibly governed him too much; it had made him impatient of vulgar troubles and had led him to live by himself, in a sorted, sifted90, arranged world, thinking about art and beauty and history. He had consulted his taste in everything — his taste alone perhaps, as a sick man consciously incurable91 consults at last only his lawyer: that was what made him so different from every one else. Ralph had something of this same quality, this appearance of thinking that life was a matter of connoisseurship92; but in Ralph it was an anomaly, a kind of humorous excrescence, whereas in Mr. Osmond it was the keynote, and everything was in harmony with it. She was certainly far from understanding him completely; his meaning was not at all times obvious. It was hard to see what he meant for instance by speaking of his provincial side — which was exactly the side she would have taken him most to lack. Was it a harmless paradox93, intended to puzzle her? or was it the last refinement94 of high culture? She trusted she should learn in time; it would be very interesting to learn. If it was provincial to have that harmony, what then was the finish of the capital? And she could put this question in spite of so feeling her host a shy personage; since such shyness as his — the shyness of ticklish95 nerves and fine perceptions — was perfectly consistent with the best breeding. Indeed it was almost a proof of standards and touchstones other than the vulgar: he must be so sure the vulgar would be first on the ground. He wasn’t a man of easy assurance, who chatted and gossiped with the fluency96 of a superficial nature; he was critical of himself as well as of others, and, exacting97 a good deal of others, to think them agreeable, probably took a rather ironical99 view of what he himself offered: a proof into the bargain that he was not grossly conceited100. If he had not been shy he wouldn’t have effected that gradual, subtle, successful conversion101 of it to which she owed both what pleased her in him and what mystified her. If he had suddenly asked her what she thought of the Countess Gemini, that was doubtless a proof that he was interested in her; it could scarcely be as a help to knowledge of his own sister. That he should be so interested showed an enquiring102 mind; but it was a little singular he should sacrifice his fraternal feeling to his curiosity. This was the most eccentric thing he had done.
There were two other rooms, beyond the one in which she had been received, equally full of romantic objects, and in these apartments Isabel spent a quarter of an hour. Everything was in the last degree curious and precious, and Mr. Osmond continued to be the kindest of ciceroni as he led her from one fine piece to another and still held his little girl by the hand. His kindness almost surprised our young friend, who wondered why he should take so much trouble for her; and she was oppressed at last with the accumulation of beauty and knowledge to which she found herself introduced. There was enough for the present; she had ceased to attend to what he said; she listened to him with attentive64 eyes, but was not thinking of what he told her. He probably thought her quicker, cleverer in every way, more prepared, than she was. Madame Merle would have pleasantly exaggerated; which was a pity, because in the end he would be sure to find out, and then perhaps even her real intelligence wouldn’t reconcile him to his mistake. A part of Isabel’s fatigue103 came from the effort to appear as intelligent as she believed Madame Merle had described her, and from the fear (very unusual with her) of exposing — not her ignorance; for that she cared comparatively little — but her possible grossness of perception. It would have annoyed her to express a liking104 for something he, in his superior enlightenment, would think she oughtn’t to like; or to pass by something at which the truly initiated105 mind would arrest itself. She had no wish to fall into that grotesqueness106 — in which she had seen women (and it was a warning) serenely107, yet ignobly108, flounder. She was very careful therefore as to what she said, as to what she noticed or failed to notice; more careful than she had ever been before.
They came back into the first of the rooms, where the tea had been served; but as the two other ladies were still on the terrace, and as Isabel had not yet been made acquainted with the view, the paramount109 distinction of the place, Mr. Osmond directed her steps into the garden without more delay. Madame Merle and the Countess had had chairs brought out, and as the afternoon was lovely the Countess proposed they should take their tea in the open air. Pansy therefore was sent to bid the servant bring out the preparations. The sun had got low, the golden light took a deeper tone, and on the mountains and the plain that stretched beneath them the masses of purple shadow glowed as richly as the places that were still exposed. The scene had an extraordinary charm. The air was almost solemnly still, and the large expanse of the landscape, with its garden-like culture and nobleness of outline, its teeming110 valley and delicately-fretted hills, its peculiarly human-looking touches of habitation, lay there in splendid harmony and classic grace. “You seem so well pleased that I think you can be trusted to come back,” Osmond said as he led his companion to one of the angles of the terrace.
“I shall certainly come back,” she returned, “in spite of what you say about its being bad to live in Italy. What was that you said about one’s natural mission? I wonder if I should forsake111 my natural mission if I were to settle in Florence.”
“A woman’s natural mission is to be where she’s most appreciated.”
“The point’s to find out where that is.”
“Very true — she often wastes a great deal of time in the enquiry. People ought to make it very plain to her.”
“Such a matter would have to be made very plain to me,” smiled Isabel.
“I’m glad, at any rate, to hear you talk of settling. Madame Merle had given me an idea that you were of a rather roving disposition. I thought she spoke34 of your having some plan of going round the world.”
“I’m rather ashamed of my plans; I make a new one every day.”
“I don’t see why you should be ashamed; it’s the greatest of pleasures.”
“It seems frivolous112, I think,” said Isabel. “One ought to choose something very deliberately113, and be faithful to that.”
“By that rule then, I’ve not been frivolous.”
“Have you never made plans?”
“It must have been a very pleasant one,” Isabel permitted herself to observe.
“It was very simple. It was to be as quiet as possible.”
“As quiet?” the girl repeated.
“Not to worry — not to strive nor struggle. To resign myself. To be content with little.” He spoke these sentences slowly, with short pauses between, and his intelligent regard was fixed on his visitor’s with the conscious air of a man who has brought himself to confess something.
“Yes, because it’s negative.”
“Has your life been negative?”
“Call it affirmative if you like. Only it has affirmed my indifference115. Mind you, not my natural indifference — I HAD none. But my studied, my wilful116 renunciation.”
She scarcely understood him; it seemed a question whether he were joking or not. Why should a man who struck her as having a great fund of reserve suddenly bring himself to be so confidential? This was his affair, however, and his confidences were interesting. “I don’t see why you should have renounced,” she said in a moment.
“Because I could do nothing. I had no prospects118, I was poor, and I was not a man of genius. I had no talents even; I took my measure early in life. I was simply the most fastidious young gentleman living. There were two or three people in the world I envied — the Emperor of Russia, for instance, and the Sultan of Turkey! There were even moments when I envied the Pope of Rome — for the consideration he enjoys. I should have been delighted to be considered to that extent; but since that couldn’t be I didn’t care for anything less, and I made up my mind not to go in for honours. The leanest gentleman can always consider himself, and fortunately I was, though lean, a gentleman. I could do nothing in Italy — I couldn’t even be an Italian patriot119. To do that I should have had to get out of the country; and I was too fond of it to leave it, to say nothing of my being too well satisfied with it, on the whole, as it then was, to wish it altered. So I’ve passed a great many years here on that quiet plan I spoke of. I’ve not been at all unhappy. I don’t mean to say I’ve cared for nothing; but the things I’ve cared for have been definite — limited. The events of my life have been absolutely unperceived by any one save myself; getting an old silver crucifix at a bargain (I’ve never bought anything dear, of course), or discovering, as I once did, a sketch120 by Correggio on a panel daubed over by some inspired idiot.”
This would have been rather a dry account of Mr. Osmond’s career if Isabel had fully37 believed it; but her imagination supplied the human element which she was sure had not been wanting. His life had been mingled121 with other lives more than he admitted; naturally she couldn’t expect him to enter into this. For the present she abstained122 from provoking further revelations; to intimate that he had not told her everything would be more familiar and less considerate than she now desired to be — would in fact be uproariously vulgar. He had certainly told her quite enough. It was her present inclination, however, to express a measured sympathy for the success with which he had preserved his independence. “That’s a very pleasant life,” she said, “to renounce117 everything but Correggio!”
“Oh, I’ve made in my way a good thing of it. Don’t imagine I’m whining123 about it. It’s one’s own fault if one isn’t happy.”
This was large; she kept down to something smaller. “Have you lived here always?”
“No, not always. I lived a long time at Naples, and many years in Rome. But I’ve been here a good while. Perhaps I shall have to change, however; to do something else. I’ve no longer myself to think of. My daughter’s growing up and may very possibly not care so much for the Correggios and crucifixes as I. I shall have to do what’s best for Pansy.”
“Yes, do that,” said Isabel. “She’s such a dear little girl.”
“Ah,” cried Gilbert Osmond beautifully, “she’s a little saint of heaven! She is my great happiness!”
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maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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intensities
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| n.强烈( intensity的名词复数 )；（感情的）强烈程度；强度；烈度 | |
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inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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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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twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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22
truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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wheezing
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的现在分词 )；哮鸣 | |
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shrillness
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| 尖锐刺耳 | |
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invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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induction
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| n.感应，感应现象 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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29
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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30
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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32
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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platitudes
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| n.平常的话，老生常谈，陈词滥调( platitude的名词复数 )；滥套子 | |
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34
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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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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38
ruffles
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| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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42
divergence
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| n.分歧，岔开 | |
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43
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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44
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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45
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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47
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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48
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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49
lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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50
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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51
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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52
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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53
entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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56
dilettantish
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| adj.半吊子的；半瓶醋似的；一知半解的；业余爱好的 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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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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59
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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60
attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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61
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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62
fresco
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| n.壁画；vt.作壁画于 | |
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63
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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65
infelicitous
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| adj.不适当的 | |
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66
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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67
archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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68
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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69
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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70
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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71
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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73
contentedness
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74
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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75
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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76
tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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77
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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78
tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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79
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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80
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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81
relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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82
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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83
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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84
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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85
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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86
overdrawn
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| 透支( overdraw的过去分词 )； (overdraw的过去分词) | |
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87
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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88
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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89
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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90
sifted
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| v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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91
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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92
connoisseurship
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| n.鉴赏家（或鉴定家、行家）身份，鉴赏（或鉴定）力 | |
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93
paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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94
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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95
ticklish
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| adj.怕痒的；问题棘手的；adv.怕痒地；n.怕痒，小心处理 | |
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96
fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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97
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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98
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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99
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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100
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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101
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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102
enquiring
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| a.爱打听的，显得好奇的 | |
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103
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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104
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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105
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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106
grotesqueness
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107
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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108
ignobly
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| 卑贱地，下流地 | |
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109
paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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110
teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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111
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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112
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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113
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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114
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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115
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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116
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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117
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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118
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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119
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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120
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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121
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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122
abstained
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| v.戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的过去式和过去分词 )；弃权（不投票） | |
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123
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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