Chapter XL
Isabel had not seen much of Madame Merle since her marriage, this lady having indulged in frequent absences from Rome. At one time she had spent six months in England; at another she had passed a portion of a winter in Paris. She had made numerous visits to distant friends and gave countenance1 to the idea that for the future she should be a less inveterate2 Roman than in the past. As she had been inveterate in the past only in the sense of constantly having an apartment in one of the sunniest niches3 of the Pincian — an apartment which often stood empty — this suggested a prospect4 of almost constant absence; a danger which Isabel at one period had been much inclined to deplore5. Familiarity had modified in some degree her first impression of Madame Merle, but it had not essentially6 altered it; there was still much wonder of admiration7 in it. That personage was armed at all points; it was a pleasure to see a character so completely equipped for the social battle. She carried her flag discreetly8, but her weapons were polished steel, and she used them with a skill which struck Isabel as more and more that of a veteran. She was never weary, never overcome with disgust; she never appeared to need rest or consolation9. She had her own ideas; she had of old exposed a great many of them to Isabel, who knew also that under an appearance of extreme self-control her highly-cultivated friend concealed10 a rich sensibility. But her will was mistress of her life; there was something gallant11 in the way she kept going. It was as if she had learned the secret of it — as if the art of life were some clever trick she had guessed. Isabel, as she herself grew older, became acquainted with revulsions, with disgusts; there were days when the world looked black and she asked herself with some sharpness what it was that she was pretending to live for. Her old habit had been to live by enthusiasm, to fall in love with suddenly-perceived possibilities, with the idea of some new adventure. As a younger person she had been used to proceed from one little exaltation to the other: there were scarcely any dull places between. But Madame Merle had suppressed enthusiasm; she fell in love now-a-days with nothing; she lived entirely12 by reason and by wisdom. There were hours when Isabel would have given anything for lessons in this art; if her brilliant friend had been near she would have made an appeal to her. She had become aware more than before of the advantage of being like that — of having made one’s self a firm surface, a sort of corselet of silver.
But, as I say, it was not till the winter during which we lately renewed acquaintance with our heroine that the personage in question made again a continuous stay in Rome. Isabel now saw more of her than she had done since her marriage; but by this time Isabel’s needs and inclinations13 had considerably14 changed. It was not at present to Madame Merle that she would have applied15 for instruction; she had lost the desire to know this lady’s clever trick. If she had troubles she must keep them to herself, and if life was difficult it would not make it easier to confess herself beaten. Madame Merle was doubtless of great use to herself and an ornament16 to any circle; but was she — would she be — of use to others in periods of refined embarrassment17? The best way to profit by her friend — this indeed Isabel had always thought — was to imitate her, to be as firm and bright as she. She recognised no embarrassments18, and Isabel, considering this fact, determined19 for the fiftieth time to brush aside her own. It seemed to her too, on the renewal20 of an intercourse21 which had virtually been interrupted, that her old ally was different, was almost detached — pushing to the extreme a certain rather artificial fear of being indiscreet. Ralph Touchett, we know, had been of the opinion that she was prone22 to exaggeration, to forcing the note — was apt, in the vulgar phrase, to overdo23 it. Isabel had never admitted this charge — had never indeed quite understood it; Madame Merle’s conduct, to her perception, always bore the stamp of good taste, was always “quiet.” But in this matter of not wishing to intrude24 upon the inner life of the Osmond family it at last occurred to our young woman that she overdid25 a little. That of course was not the best taste; that was rather violent. She remembered too much that Isabel was married; that she had now other interests; that though she, Madame Merle, had known Gilbert Osmond and his little Pansy very well, better almost than any one, she was not after all of the inner circle. She was on her guard; she never spoke26 of their affairs till she was asked, even pressed — as when her opinion was wanted; she had a dread27 of seeming to meddle28. Madame Merle was as candid29 as we know, and one day she candidly30 expressed this dread to Isabel.
“I MUST be on my guard,” she said; “I might so easily, without suspecting it, offend you. You would be right to be offended, even if my intention should have been of the purest. I must not forget that I knew your husband long before you did; I must not let that betray me. If you were a silly woman you might be jealous. You’re not a silly woman; I know that perfectly31. But neither am I; therefore I’m determined not to get into trouble. A little harm’s very soon done; a mistake’s made before one knows it. Of course if I had wished to make love to your husband I had ten years to do it in, and nothing to prevent; so it isn’t likely I shall begin to-day, when I’m so much less attractive than I was. But if I were to annoy you by seeming to take a place that doesn’t belong to me, you wouldn’t make that reflection; you’d simply say I was forgetting certain differences. I’m determined not to forget them. Certainly a good friend isn’t always thinking of that; one doesn’t suspect one’s friends of injustice32. I don’t suspect you, my dear, in the least; but I suspect human nature. Don’t think I make myself uncomfortable; I’m not always watching myself. I think I sufficiently33 prove it in talking to you as I do now. All I wish to say is, however, that if you were to be jealous — that’s the form it would take — I should be sure to think it was a little my fault. It certainly wouldn’t be your husband’s.”
Isabel had had three years to think over Mrs. Touchett’s theory that Madame Merle had made Gilbert Osmond’s marriage. We know how she had at first received it. Madame Merle might have made Gilbert Osmond’s marriage, but she certainly had not made Isabel Archer’s. That was the work of — Isabel scarcely knew what: of nature, providence34, fortune, of the eternal mystery of things. It was true her aunt’s complaint had been not so much of Madame Merle’s activity as of her duplicity: she had brought about the strange event and then she had denied her guilt35. Such guilt would not have been great, to Isabel’s mind; she couldn’t make a crime of Madame Merle’s having been the producing cause of the most important friendship she had ever formed. This had occurred to her just before her marriage, after her little discussion with her aunt and at a time when she was still capable of that large inward reference, the tone almost of the philosophic36 historian, to her scant37 young annals. If Madame Merle had desired her change of state she could only say it had been a very happy thought. With her, moreover, she had been perfectly straightforward38; she had never concealed her high opinion of Gilbert Osmond. After their union Isabel discovered that her husband took a less convenient view of the matter; he seldom consented to finger, in talk, this roundest and smoothest bead39 of their social rosary. “Don’t you like Madame Merle?” Isabel had once said to him. “She thinks a great deal of you.”
“I’ll tell you once for all,” Osmond had answered. “I liked her once better than I do to-day. I’m tired of her, and I’m rather ashamed of it. She’s so almost unnaturally40 good! I’m glad she’s not in Italy; it makes for relaxation41 — for a sort of moral detente. Don’t talk of her too much; it seems to bring her back. She’ll come back in plenty of time.”
Madame Merle, in fact, had come back before it was too late — too late, I mean, to recover whatever advantage she might have lost. But meantime, if, as I have said, she was sensibly different, Isabel’s feelings were also not quite the same. Her consciousness of the situation was as acute as of old, but it was much less satisfying. A dissatisfied mind, whatever else it may miss, is rarely in want of reasons; they bloom as thick as buttercups in June. The fact of Madame Merle’s having had a hand in Gilbert Osmond’s marriage ceased to be one of her titles to consideration; it might have been written, after all, that there was not so much to thank her for. As time went on there was less and less, and Isabel once said to herself that perhaps without her these things would not have been. That reflection indeed was instantly stifled42; she knew an immediate43 horror at having made it. “Whatever happens to me let me not be unjust,” she said; “let me bear my burdens myself and not shift them upon others!” This disposition44 was tested, eventually, by that ingenious apology for her present conduct which Madame Merle saw fit to make and of which I have given a sketch45; for there was something irritating — there was almost an air of mockery — in her neat discriminations and clear convictions. In Isabel’s mind to-day there was nothing clear; there was a confusion of regrets, a complication of fears. She felt helpless as she turned away from her friend, who had just made the statements I have quoted: Madame Merle knew so little what she was thinking of! She was herself moreover so unable to explain. Jealous of her — jealous of her with Gilbert? The idea just then suggested no near reality. She almost wished jealousy46 had been possible; it would have made in a manner for refreshment47. Wasn’t it in a manner one of the symptoms of happiness? Madame Merle, however, was wise, so wise that she might have been pretending to know Isabel better than Isabel knew herself. This young woman had always been fertile in resolutions — any of them of an elevated character; but at no period had they flourished (in the privacy of her heart) more richly than to-day. It is true that they all had a family likeness48; they might have been summed up in the determination that if she was to be unhappy it should not be by a fault of her own. Her poor winged spirit had always had a great desire to do its best, and it had not as yet been seriously discouraged. It wished, therefore, to hold fast to justice — not to pay itself by petty revenges. To associate Madame Merle with its disappointment would be a petty revenge — especially as the pleasure to be derived49 from that would be perfectly insincere. It might feed her sense of bitterness, but it would not loosen her bonds. It was impossible to pretend that she had not acted with her eyes open; if ever a girl was a free agent she had been. A girl in love was doubtless not a free agent; but the sole source of her mistake had been within herself. There had been no plot, no snare50; she had looked and considered and chosen. When a woman had made such a mistake, there was only one way to repair it — just immensely (oh, with the highest grandeur51!) to accept it. One folly52 was enough, especially when it was to last for ever; a second one would not much set it off. In this vow53 of reticence54 there was a certain nobleness which kept Isabel going; but Madame Merle had been right, for all that, in taking her precautions.
One day about a month after Ralph Touchett’s arrival in Rome Isabel came back from a walk with Pansy. It was not only a part of her general determination to be just that she was at present very thankful for Pansy — it was also a part of her tenderness for things that were pure and weak. Pansy was dear to her, and there was nothing else in her life that had the rightness of the young creature’s attachment55 or the sweetness of her own clearness about it. It was like a soft presence — like a small hand in her own; on Pansy’s part it was more than an affection — it was a kind of ardent56 coercive faith. On her own side her sense of the girl’s dependence57 was more than a pleasure; it operated as a definite reason when motives58 threatened to fail her. She had said to herself that we must take our duty where we find it, and that we must look for it as much as possible. Pansy’s sympathy was a direct admonition; it seemed to say that here was an opportunity, not eminent60 perhaps, but unmistakeable. Yet an opportunity for what Isabel could hardly have said; in general, to be more for the child than the child was able to be for herself. Isabel could have smiled, in these days, to remember that her little companion had once been ambiguous, for she now perceived that Pansy’s ambiguities61 were simply her own grossness of vision. She had been unable to believe any one could care so much — so extraordinarily62 much — to please. But since then she had seen this delicate faculty63 in operation, and now she knew what to think of it. It was the whole creature — it was a sort of genius. Pansy had no pride to interfere64 with it, and though she was constantly extending her conquests she took no credit for them. The two were constantly together; Mrs. Osmond was rarely seen without her stepdaughter. Isabel liked her company; it had the effect of one’s carrying a nosegay composed all of the same flower. And then not to neglect Pansy, not under any provocation65 to neglect her — this she had made an article of religion. The young girl had every appearance of being happier in Isabel’s society than in that of any one save her father — whom she admired with an intensity66 justified67 by the fact that, as paternity was an exquisite68 pleasure to Gilbert Osmond, he had always been luxuriously69 mild. Isabel knew how Pansy liked to be with her and how she studied the means of pleasing her. She had decided70 that the best way of pleasing her was negative, and consisted in not giving her trouble — a conviction which certainly could have had no reference to trouble already existing. She was therefore ingeniously passive and almost imaginatively docile71; she was careful even to moderate the eagerness with which she assented72 to Isabel’s propositions and which might have implied that she could have thought otherwise. She never interrupted, never asked social questions, and though she delighted in approbation73, to the point of turning pale when it came to her, never held out her hand for it. She only looked toward it wistfully — an attitude which, as she grew older, made her eyes the prettiest in the world. When during the second winter at Palazzo Roccanera she began to go to parties, to dances, she always, at a reasonable hour, lest Mrs. Osmond should be tired, was the first to propose departure. Isabel appreciated the sacrifice of the late dances, for she knew her little companion had a passionate74 pleasure in this exercise, taking her steps to the music like a conscientious75 fairy. Society, moreover, had no drawbacks for her; she liked even the tiresome76 parts — the heat of ball-rooms, the dulness of dinners, the crush at the door, the awkward waiting for the carriage. During the day, in this vehicle, beside her stepmother, she sat in a small fixed77, appreciative78 posture79, bending forward and faintly smiling, as if she had been taken to drive for the first time.
On the day I speak of they had been driven out of one of the gates of the city and at the end of half an hour had left the carriage to await them by the roadside while they walked away over the short grass of the Campagna, which even in the winter months is sprinkled with delicate flowers. This was almost a daily habit with Isabel, who was fond of a walk and had a swift length of step, though not so swift a one as on her first coming to Europe. It was not the form of exercise that Pansy loved best, but she liked it, because she liked everything; and she moved with a shorter undulation beside her father’s wife, who afterwards, on their return to Rome, paid a tribute to her preferences by making the circuit of the Pincian or the Villa80 Borghese. She had gathered a handful of flowers in a sunny hollow, far from the walls of Rome, and on reaching Palazzo Roccanera she went straight to her room, to put them into water. Isabel passed into the drawing-room, the one she herself usually occupied, the second in order from the large ante-chamber which was entered from the staircase and in which even Gilbert Osmond’s rich devices had not been able to correct a look of rather grand nudity. Just beyond the threshold of the drawing-room she stopped short, the reason for her doing so being that she had received an impression. The impression had, in strictness, nothing unprecedented81; but she felt it as something new, and the soundlessness of her step gave her time to take in the scene before she interrupted it. Madame Merle was there in her bonnet82, and Gilbert Osmond was talking to her; for a minute they were unaware83 she had come in. Isabel had often seen that before, certainly; but what she had not seen, or at least had not noticed, was that their colloquy84 had for the moment converted itself into a sort of familiar silence, from which she instantly perceived that her entrance would startle them. Madame Merle was standing86 on the rug, a little way from the fire; Osmond was in a deep chair, leaning back and looking at her. Her head was erect87, as usual, but her eyes were bent88 on his. What struck Isabel first was that he was sitting while Madame Merle stood; there was an anomaly in this that arrested her. Then she perceived that they had arrived at a desultory89 pause in their exchange of ideas and were musing90, face to face, with the freedom of old friends who sometimes exchange ideas without uttering them. There was nothing to shock in this; they were old friends in fact. But the thing made an image, lasting91 only a moment, like a sudden flicker92 of light. Their relative positions, their absorbed mutual93 gaze, struck her as something detected. But it was all over by the time she had fairly seen it. Madame Merle had seen her and had welcomed her without moving; her husband, on the other hand, had instantly jumped up. He presently murmured something about wanting a walk and, after having asked their visitor to excuse him, left the room.
“I came to see you, thinking you would have come in; and as you hadn’t I waited for you,” Madame Merle said.
“Didn’t he ask you to sit down?” Isabel asked with a smile.
Madame Merle looked about her. “Ah, it’s very true; I was going away.”
“You must stay now.”
“Certainly. I came for a reason; I’ve something on my mind.”
“I’ve told you that before,” Isabel said —“that it takes something extraordinary to bring you to this house.”
“And you know what I’ve told YOU; that whether I come or whether I stay away, I’ve always the same motive59 — the affection I bear you.”
“Yes, you’ve told me that.”
“You look just now as if you didn’t believe it,” said Madame Merle.
“Ah,” Isabel answered, “the profundity94 of your motives, that’s the last thing I doubt!”
Isabel shook her head gravely. “I know you’ve always been kind to me.”
“As often as you would let me. You don’t always take it; then one has to let you alone. It’s not to do you a kindness, however, that I’ve come to-day; it’s quite another affair. I’ve come to get rid of a trouble of my own — to make it over to you. I’ve been talking to your husband about it.”
“I’m surprised at that; he doesn’t like troubles.”
“Especially other people’s; I know very well. But neither do you, I suppose. At any rate, whether you do or not, you must help me. It’s about poor Mr. Rosier96.”
“Ah,” said Isabel reflectively, “it’s his trouble then, not yours.”
“He has succeeded in saddling me with it. He comes to see me ten times a week, to talk about Pansy.”
“Yes, he wants to marry her. I know all about it.”
Madame Merle hesitated. “I gathered from your husband that perhaps you didn’t.”
“How should he know what I know? He has never spoken to me of the matter.”
“It’s probably because he doesn’t know how to speak of it.”
“It’s nevertheless the sort of question in which he’s rarely at fault.”
“Yes, because as a general thing he knows perfectly well what to think. To-day he doesn’t.”
“Haven’t you been telling him?” Isabel asked.
Madame Merle gave a bright, voluntary smile. “Do you know you’re a little dry?”
“Yes; I can’t help it. Mr. Rosier has also talked to me.”
“In that there’s some reason. You’re so near the child.”
“Ah,” said Isabel, “for all the comfort I’ve given him! If you think me dry, I wonder what HE thinks.”
“I believe he thinks you can do more than you have done.”
“I can do nothing.”
“You can do more at least than I. I don’t know what mysterious connection he may have discovered between me and Pansy; but he came to me from the first, as if I held his fortune in my hand. Now he keeps coming back, to spur me up, to know what hope there is, to pour out his feelings.”
“He’s very much in love,” said Isabel.
“Very much — for him.”
“Very much for Pansy, you might say as well.”
Madame Merle dropped her eyes a moment. “Don’t you think she’s attractive?”
“The dearest little person possible — but very limited.”
“No,” said Isabel, “he has about the extent of one’s pocket-handkerchief — the small ones with lace borders.” Her humour had lately turned a good deal to sarcasm98, but in a moment she was ashamed of exercising it on so innocent an object as Pansy’s suitor. “He’s very kind, very honest,” she presently added; “and he’s not such a fool as he seems.”
“He assures me that she delights in him,” said Madame Merle.
“I don’t know; I’ve not asked her.”
“You’ve never sounded her a little?”
“It’s not my place; it’s her father’s.”
“Ah, you’re too literal!” said Madame Merle.
“I must judge for myself.”
Madame Merle gave her smile again. “It isn’t easy to help you.”
“To help me?” said Isabel very seriously. “What do you mean?”
“It’s easy to displease99 you. Don’t you see how wise I am to be careful? I notify you, at any rate, as I notified Osmond, that I wash my hands of the love-affairs of Miss Pansy and Mr. Edward Rosier. Je n’y peux rien, moi! I can’t talk to Pansy about him. Especially,” added Madame Merle, “as I don’t think him a paragon100 of husbands.”
Isabel reflected a little; after which, with a smile, “You don’t wash your hands then!” she said. After which again she added in another tone: “You can’t — you’re too much interested.”
Madame Merle slowly rose; she had given Isabel a look as rapid as the intimation that had gleamed before our heroine a few moments before. Only this time the latter saw nothing. “Ask him the next time, and you’ll see.”
“I can’t ask him; he has ceased to come to the house. Gilbert has let him know that he’s not welcome.”
“Ah yes,” said Madame Merle, “I forgot that — though it’s the burden of his lamentation101. He says Osmond has insulted him. All the same,” she went on, “Osmond doesn’t dislike him so much as he thinks.” She had got up as if to close the conversation, but she lingered, looking about her, and had evidently more to say. Isabel perceived this and even saw the point she had in view; but Isabel also had her own reasons for not opening the way.
“That must have pleased him, if you’ve told him,” she answered, smiling.
“Certainly I’ve told him; as far as that goes I’ve encouraged him. I’ve preached patience, have said that his case isn’t desperate if he’ll only hold his tongue and be quiet. Unfortunately he has taken it into his head to be jealous.”
“Jealous?”
“Jealous of Lord Warburton, who, he says, is always here.”
Isabel, who was tired, had remained sitting; but at this she also rose. “Ah!” she exclaimed simply, moving slowly to the fireplace. Madame Merle observed her as she passed and while she stood a moment before the mantel-glass and pushed into its place a wandering tress of hair.
“Poor Mr. Rosier keeps saying there’s nothing impossible in Lord Warburton’s falling in love with Pansy,” Madame Merle went on. Isabel was silent a little; she turned away from the glass. “It’s true — there’s nothing impossible,” she returned at last, gravely and more gently.
“So I’ve had to admit to Mr. Rosier. So, too, your husband thinks.”
“That I don’t know.”
“Ask him and you’ll see.”
“I shall not ask him,” said Isabel.
“Pardon me; I forgot you had pointed102 that out. Of course,” Madame Merle added, “you’ve had infinitely103 more observation of Lord Warburton’s behaviour than I.”
“I see no reason why I shouldn’t tell you that he likes my stepdaughter very much.”
Madame Merle gave one of her quick looks again. “Likes her, you mean — as Mr. Rosier means?”
“I don’t know how Mr. Rosier means; but Lord Warburton has let me know that he’s charmed with Pansy.”
“And you’ve never told Osmond?” This observation was immediate, precipitate104; it almost burst from Madame Merle’s lips.
Isabel’s eyes rested on her. “I suppose he’ll know in time; Lord Warburton has a tongue and knows how to express himself.”
Madame Merle instantly became conscious that she had spoken more quickly than usual, and the reflection brought the colour to her cheek. She gave the treacherous105 impulse time to subside106 and then said as if she had been thinking it over a little: “That would be better than marrying poor Mr. Rosier.”
“Much better, I think.”
“It would be very delightful107; it would be a great marriage. It’s really very kind of him.”
“Very kind of him?”
“To drop his eyes on a simple little girl.”
“I don’t see that.”
“It’s very good of you. But after all, Pansy Osmond —”
“After all, Pansy Osmond’s the most attractive person he has ever known!” Isabel exclaimed.
Madame Merle stared, and indeed she was justly bewildered. “Ah, a moment ago I thought you seemed rather to disparage108 her.”
“I said she was limited. And so she is. And so’s Lord Warburton.”
“So are we all, if you come to that. If it’s no more than Pansy deserves, all the better. But if she fixes her affections on Mr. Rosier I won’t admit that she deserves it. That will be too perverse109.”
“I quite agree with you, and I’m delighted to know that I’m not expected to feed his flame. For the future, when he calls on me, my door shall be closed to him.” And gathering111 her mantle112 together Madame Merle prepared to depart. She was checked, however, on her progress to the door, by an inconsequent request from Isabel.
“All the same, you know, be kind to him.”
She lifted her shoulders and eyebrows113 and stood looking at her friend. “I don’t understand your contradictions! Decidedly I shan’t be kind to him, for it will be a false kindness. I want to see her married to Lord Warburton.”
“You had better wait till he asks her.”
“If what you say’s true, he’ll ask her. Especially,” said Madame Merle in a moment, “if you make him.”
“If I make him?”
“It’s quite in your power. You’ve great influence with him.”
Isabel frowned a little. “Where did you learn that?”
“Mrs. Touchett told me. Not you — never!” said Madame Merle, smiling.
“I certainly never told you anything of the sort.”
“You MIGHT have done so — so far as opportunity went — when we were by way of being confidential114 with each other. But you really told me very little; I’ve often thought so since.”
Isabel had thought so too, and sometimes with a certain satisfaction. But she didn’t admit it now — perhaps because she wished not to appear to exult115 in it. “You seem to have had an excellent informant in my aunt,” she simply returned.
“She let me know you had declined an offer of marriage from Lord Warburton, because she was greatly vexed116 and was full of the subject. Of course I think you’ve done better in doing as you did. But if you wouldn’t marry Lord Warburton yourself, make him the reparation of helping117 him to marry some one else.”
Isabel listened to this with a face that persisted in not reflecting the bright expressiveness118 of Madame Merle’s. But in a moment she said, reasonably and gently enough: “I should be very glad indeed if, as regards Pansy, it could be arranged.” Upon which her companion, who seemed to regard this as a speech of good omen85, embraced her more tenderly than might have been expected and triumphantly119 withdrew.
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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12
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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embarrassments
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| n.尴尬( embarrassment的名词复数 )；难堪；局促不安；令人难堪或耻辱的事 | |
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19
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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21
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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22
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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23
overdo
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| vt.把...做得过头，演得过火 | |
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24
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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overdid
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去式 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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26
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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27
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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28
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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29
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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30
candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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31
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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32
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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33
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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34
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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35
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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36
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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37
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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38
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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39
bead
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| n.念珠；(pl.)珠子项链；水珠 | |
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40
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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41
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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42
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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43
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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44
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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45
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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46
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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47
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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48
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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49
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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50
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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51
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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53
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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54
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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55
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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56
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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58
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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59
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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60
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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ambiguities
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| n.歧义( ambiguity的名词复数 )；意义不明确；模棱两可的意思；模棱两可的话 | |
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62
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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63
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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64
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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66
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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67
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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68
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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69
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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70
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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71
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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72
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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74
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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75
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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76
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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77
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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78
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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79
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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80
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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81
unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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82
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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83
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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84
colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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85
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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86
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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87
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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88
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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89
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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90
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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91
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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92
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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93
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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94
profundity
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| n.渊博；深奥，深刻 | |
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95
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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96
rosier
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| Rosieresite | |
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97
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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98
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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99
displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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100
paragon
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| n.模范，典型 | |
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101
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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102
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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103
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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104
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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105
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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106
subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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107
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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108
disparage
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| v.贬抑，轻蔑 | |
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109
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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110
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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111
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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112
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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113
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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114
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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115
exult
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| v.狂喜，欢腾；欢欣鼓舞 | |
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116
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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117
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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118
expressiveness
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| n.富有表现力 | |
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119
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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