There is an old story of a Spanish court painter, who, being pressed for money, and having received a piece of damask, which he was to wear in a state procession, pawned1 the damask, and appeared, at the show, dressed out in some very fine sheets of paper, which he had painted so as exactly to resemble silk. Nay2, his coat looked so much richer than the doublets of all the rest, that the Emperor Charles, in whose honor the procession was given, remarked the painter, and so his deceit was found out.
I have often thought that, in respect of sham3 and real histories, a similar fact may be noticed; the sham story appearing a great deal more agreeable, life-like, and natural than the true one: and all who, from laziness as well as principle, are inclined to follow the easy and comfortable study of novels, may console themselves with the notion that they are studying matters quite as important as history, and that their favorite duodecimos are as instructive as the biggest quartos in the world.
If then, ladies, the big-wigs begin to sneer5 at the course of our studies, calling our darling romances foolish, trivial, noxious6 to the mind, enervators of intellect, fathers of idleness, and what not, let us at once take a high ground, and say — Go you to your own employments, and to such dull studies as you fancy; go and bob for triangles, from the Pons Asinorum; go enjoy your dull black draughts7 of metaphysics; go fumble8 over history books, and dissert upon Herodotus and Livy; OUR histories are, perhaps, as true as yours; our drink is the brisk sparkling champagne9 drink, from the presses of Colburn, Bentley and Co.; our walks are over such sunshiny pleasure-grounds as Scott and Shakspeare have laid out for us; and if our dwellings10 are castles in the air, we find them excessively splendid and commodious11; — be not you envious12 because you have no wings to fly thither13. Let the big-wigs despise us; such contempt of their neighbors is the custom of all barbarous tribes; — witness, the learned Chinese: Tippoo Sultaun declared that there were not in all Europe ten thousand men: the Sklavonic hordes14, it is said, so entitled themselves from a word in their jargon15, which signifies “to speak;” the ruffians imagining that they had a monopoly of this agreeable faculty16, and that all other nations were dumb.
Not so: others may be DEAF; but the novelist has a loud, eloquent17, instructive language, though his enemies may despise or deny it ever so much. What is more, one could, perhaps, meet the stoutest18 historian on his own ground, and argue with him; showing that sham histories were much truer than real histories; which are, in fact, mere20 contemptible21 catalogues of names and places, that can have no moral effect upon the reader.
As thus:—
Julius Caesar beat Pompey, at Pharsalia.
The Duke of Marlborough beat Marshal Tallard at Blenheim.
The Constable22 of Bourbon beat Francis the First, at Pavia.
And what have we here? — so many names, simply. Suppose Pharsalia had been, at that mysterious period when names were given, called Pavia; and that Julius Caesar’s family name had been John Churchill; — the fact would have stood in history, thus:—
“Pompey ran away from the Duke of Marlborough at Pavia.”
And why not? — we should have been just as wise. Or it might be stated that —
“The tenth legion charged the French infantry23 at Blenheim; and
Caesar, writing home to his mamma, said, ‘Madame, tout19 est perdu
fors l’honneur.’”
What a contemptible science this is, then, about which quartos are written, and sixty-volumed Biographies Universelles, and Lardner’s Cabinet Cyclopaedias, and the like! the facts are nothing in it, the names everything and a gentleman might as well improve his mind by learning Walker’s “Gazetteer,” or getting by heart a fifty-years-old edition of the “Court Guide.”
Having thus disposed of the historians, let us come to the point in question — the novelists.
On the title-page of these volumes the reader has, doubtless, remarked, that among the pieces introduced, some are announced as “copies” and “compositions.” Many of the histories have, accordingly, been neatly25 stolen from the collections of French authors (and mutilated, according to the old saying, so that their owners should not know them) and, for compositions, we intend to favor the public with some studies of French modern works, that have not as yet, we believe, attracted the notice of the English public.
Of such works there appear many hundreds yearly, as may be seen by the French catalogues; but the writer has not so much to do with works political, philosophical26, historical, metaphysical, scientifical, theological, as with those for which he has been putting forward a plea — novels, namely; on which he has expended27 a great deal of time and study. And passing from novels in general to French novels, let us confess, with much humiliation28, that we borrow from these stories a great deal more knowledge of French society than from our own personal observation we ever can hope to gain: for, let a gentleman who has dwelt two, four, or ten years in Paris (and has not gone thither for the purpose of making a book, when three weeks are sufficient — let an English gentleman say, at the end of any given period, how much he knows of French society, how many French houses he has entered, and how many French friends he has made? — He has enjoyed, at the end of the year, say —
At the English Ambassador’s, so many soirées.
At houses to which he has brought letters, so many tea-parties.
At Cafés, so many dinners.
At French private houses, say three dinners, and very lucky too.
He has, we say, seen an immense number of wax candles, cups of tea, glasses of orgeat, and French people, in best clothes, enjoying the same; but intimacy30 there is none; we see but the outsides of the people. Year by year we live in France, and grow gray, and see no more. We play écarté with Monsieur de Trêfle every night; but what know we of the heart of the man — of the inward ways, thoughts, and customs of Trêfle? If we have good legs, and love the amusement, we dance with Countess Flicflac, Tuesday’s and Thursdays, ever since the Peace; and how far are we advanced in acquaintance with her since we first twirled her round a room? We know her velvet31 gown, and her diamonds (about three-fourths of them are sham, by the way); we know her smiles, and her simpers, and her rouge32 — but no more: she may turn into a kitchen wench at twelve on Thursday night, for aught we know; her voiture, a pumpkin33; and her gens, so many rats: but the real, rougeless, intime Flicflac, we know not. This privilege is granted to no Englishman: we may understand the French language as well as Monsieur de Levizac, but never can penetrate34 into Flicflac’s confidence: our ways are not her ways; our manners of thinking, not hers: when we say a good thing, in the course of the night, we are wondrous35 lucky and pleased; Flicflac will trill you off fifty in ten minutes, and wonder at the bêtise of the Briton, who has never a word to say. We are married, and have fourteen children, and would just as soon make love to the Pope of Rome as to any one but our own wife. If you do not make love to Flicflac, from the day after her marriage to the day she reaches sixty, she thinks you a fool. We won’t play at écarté with Trêfle on Sunday nights; and are seen walking, about one o’clock (accompanied by fourteen red-haired children, with fourteen gleaming prayer-books), away from the church. “Grand Dieu!” cries Trêfle, “is that man mad? He won’t play at cards on a Sunday; he goes to church on a Sunday: he has fourteen children!”
Was ever Frenchman known to do likewise? Pass we on to our argument, which is, that with our English notions and moral and physical constitution, it is quite impossible that we should become intimate with our brisk neighbors; and when such authors as Lady Morgan and Mrs. Trollope, having frequented a certain number of tea-parties in the French capital, begin to prattle36 about French manners and men — with all respect for the talents of those ladies, we do believe their information not to be worth a sixpence; they speak to us not of men but of tea-parties. Tea-parties are the same all the world over; with the exception that, with the French, there are more lights and prettier dresses; and with us, a mighty38 deal more tea in the pot.
There is, however, a cheap and delightful39 way of travelling, that a man may perform in his easy-chair, without expense of passports or post-boys. On the wings of a novel, from the next circulating library, he sends his imagination a-gadding, and gains acquaintance with people and manners whom he could not hope otherwise to know. Twopence a volume bears us whithersoever we will; — back to Ivanhoe and Coeur de Lion, or to Waverley and the Young Pretender, along with Walter Scott; up the heights of fashion with the charming enchanters of the silver-fork school; or, better still, to the snug40 inn-parlor, or the jovial41 tap-room, with Mr. Pickwick and his faithful Sancho Weller. I am sure that a man who, a hundred years hence should sit down to write the history of our time, would do wrong to put that great contemporary history of “Pickwick” aside as a frivolous42 work. It contains true character under false names; and, like “Roderick Random,” an inferior work, and “Tom Jones” (one that is immeasurably superior), gives us a better idea of the state and ways of the people than one could gather from any more pompous43 or authentic44 histories.
We have, therefore, introduced into these volumes one or two short reviews of French fiction writers, of particular classes, whose Paris sketches46 may give the reader some notion of manners in that capital. If not original, at least the drawings are accurate; for, as a Frenchman might have lived a thousand years in England, and never could have written “Pickwick,” an Englishman cannot hope to give a good description of the inward thoughts and ways of his neighbors.
To a person inclined to study these, in that light and amusing fashion in which the novelist treats them, let us recommend the works of a new writer, Monsieur de Bernard, who has painted actual manners, without those monstrous47 and terrible exaggerations in which late French writers have indulged; and who, if he occasionally wounds the English sense of propriety48 (as what French man or woman alive will not?) does so more by slighting than by outraging50 it, as, with their labored51 descriptions of all sorts of imaginable wickedness, some of his brethren of the press have done. M. de Bernard’s characters are men and women of genteel society — rascals54 enough, but living in no state of convulsive crimes; and we follow him in his lively, malicious56 account of their manners, without risk of lighting49 upon any such horrors as Balzac or Dumas has provided for us.
Let us give an instance:— it is from the amusing novel called “Les Ailes d’Icare,” and contains what is to us quite a new picture of a French fashionable rogue57. The fashions will change in a few years, and the rogue, of course, with them. Let us catch this delightful fellow ere he flies. It is impossible to sketch45 the character in a more sparkling, gentlemanlike way than M. de Bernard’s; but such light things are very difficult of translation, and the sparkle sadly evaporates during the process of DECANTING58.
A FRENCH FASHIONABLE LETTER.
“MY DEAR VICTOR— It is six in the morning: I have just come from the English Ambassador’s ball, and as my plans, for the day do not admit of my sleeping, I write you a line; for, at this moment, saturated59 as I am with the enchantments60 of a fairy night, all other pleasures would be too wearisome to keep me awake, except that of conversing61 with you. Indeed, were I not to write to you now, when should I find the possibility of doing so? Time flies here with such a frightful62 rapidity, my pleasures and my affairs whirl onwards together in such a torrentuous galopade, that I am compelled to seize occasion by the forelock; for each moment has its imperious employ. Do not then accuse me of negligence63: if my correspondence has not always that regularity64 which I would fain give it, attribute the fault solely65 to the whirlwind in which I live, and which carries me hither and thither at its will.
“However, you are not the only person with whom I am behindhand: I assure you, on the contrary, that you are one of a very numerous and fashionable company, to whom, towards the discharge of my debts, I propose to consecrate66 four hours today. I give you the preference to all the world, even to the lovely Duchess of San Severino, a delicious Italian, whom, for my special happiness, I met last summer at the Waters of Aix. I have also a most important negotiation67 to conclude with one of our Princes of Finance: but n’importe, I commence with thee: friendship before love or money — friendship before everything. My despatches concluded, I am engaged to ride with the Marquis de Grigneure, the Comte de Castijars, and Lord Cobham, in order that we may recover, for a breakfast at the Rocher de Cancale that Grigneure has lost, the appetite which we all of us so cruelly abused last night at the Ambassador’s gala. On my honor, my dear fellow, everybody was of a caprice prestigieux and a comfortable mirobolant. Fancy, for a banquet-hall, a royal orangery hung with white damask; the boxes of the shrubs68 transformed into so many sideboards; lights gleaming through the foliage69; and, for guests, the loveliest women and most brilliant cavaliers of Paris. Orleans and Nemours were there, dancing and eating like simple mortals. In a word, Albion did the thing very handsomely, and I accord it my esteem70.
“Here I pause, to call for my valet-de-chambre, and call for tea; for my head is heavy, and I’ve no time for a headache. In serving me, this rascal53 of a Frédéric has broken a cup, true Japan, upon my honor — the rogue does nothing else. Yesterday, for instance, did he not thump71 me prodigiously73, by letting fall a goblet74, after Cellini, of which the carving75 alone cost me three hundred francs? I must positively76 put the wretch77 out of doors, to ensure the safety of my furniture; and in consequence of this, Eneas, an audacious young negro, in whom wisdom hath not waited for years — Eneas, my groom78, I say, will probably be elevated to the post of valet-de-chambre. But where was I? I think I was speaking to you of an oyster79 breakfast, to which, on our return from the Park (du Bois), a company of pleasant rakes are invited. After quitting Borel’s, we propose to adjourn80 to the Barrière du Combat, where Lord Cobham proposes to try some bull-dogs, which he has brought over from England — one of these, O’Connell (Lord Cobham is a Tory,) has a face in which I place much confidence; I have a bet of ten louis with Castijars on the strength of it. After the fight, we shall make our accustomed appearance at the ‘Cafe de Paris,’ (the only place, by the way, where a man who respects himself may be seen,)— and then away with frocks and spurs, and on with our dress-coats for the rest of the evening. In the first place, I shall go doze81 for a couple of hours at the Opera, where my presence is indispensable; for Coralie, a charming creature, passes this evening from the rank of the RATS to that of the TIGERS, in a pas-de-trois, and our box patronizes her. After the Opera, I must show my face to two or three salons82 in the Faubourg St. Honoré; and having thus performed my duties to the world of fashion, I return to the exercise of my rights as a member of the Carnival83. At two o’clock all the world meets at the Théatre Ventadour: lions and tigers — the whole of our menagerie will be present. Evoé! off we go! roaring and bounding Bacchanal and Saturnal; ’tis agreed that we shall be everything that is low. To conclude, we sup with Castijars, the most ‘furiously dishevelled’ orgy that ever was known.”
The rest of the letter is on matters of finance, equally curious and instructive. But pause we for the present, to consider the fashionable part: and caricature as it is, we have an accurate picture of the actual French dandy. Bets, breakfasts, riding, dinners at the “Café de Paris,” and delirious85 Carnival balls: the animal goes through all such frantic86 pleasures at the season that precedes Lent. He has a wondrous respect for English “gentlemen-sportsmen;” he imitates their clubs — their love of horse-flesh: he calls his palefrenier a groom, wears blue birds’s-eye neck-cloths, sports his pink out hunting, rides steeple-chases, and has his Jockey Club. The “tigers and lions” alluded87 to in the report have been borrowed from our own country, and a great compliment is it to Monsieur de Bernard, the writer of the above amusing sketch, that he has such a knowledge of English names and things, as to give a Tory lord the decent title of Lord Cobham, and to call his dog O’Connell. Paul de Kock calls an English nobleman, in one of his last novels, Lord Boulingrog, and appears vastly delighted at the verisimilitude of the title.
For the “rugissements et bondissements, bacchanale et saturnale, galop infernal, ronde du sabbat tout le tremblement,” these words give a most clear, untranslatable idea of the Carnival ball. A sight more hideous88 can hardly strike a man’s eye. I was present at one where the four thousand guests whirled screaming, reeling, roaring, out of the ball-room in the Rue4 St. Honoré, and tore down to the column in the Place Vend89?me, round which they went shrieking90 their own music, twenty miles an hour, and so tore madly back again. Let a man go alone to such a place of amusement, and the sight for him is perfectly91 terrible: the horrid92 frantic gayety of the place puts him in mind more of the merriment of demons93 than of men: bang, bang, drums, trumpets94, chairs, pistol-shots, pour out of the orchestra, which seems as mad as the dancers; whiz, a whirlwind of paint and patches, all the costumes under the sun, all the ranks in the empire, all the he and she scoundrels of the capital, writhed95 and twisted together, rush by you; if a man falls, woe96 be to him: two thousand screaming menads go trampling97 over his carcass: they have neither power nor will to stop.
A set of Malays drunk with bhang and running amuck98, a company of howling dervishes, may possibly, in our own day, go through similar frantic vagaries99; but I doubt if any civilized100 European people but the French would permit and enjoy such scenes. Yet our neighbors see little shame in them; and it is very true that men of all classes, high and low, here congregate101 and give themselves up to the disgusting worship of the genius of the place. — From the dandy of the Boulevard and the “Café Anglais,” let us turn to the dandy of “Flicoteau’s” and the Pays Latin — the Paris student, whose exploits among the grisettes are so celebrated102, and whose fierce republicanism keeps gendarmes104 for ever on the alert. The following is M. de Bernard’s description of him:—
“I became acquainted with Dambergeac when we were students at the Ecole de Droit; we lived in the same Hotel on the Place du Panthéon. No doubt, madam, you have occasionally met little children dedicated105 to the Virgin106, and, to this end, clothed in white raiment from head to foot: my friend, Dambergeac, had received a different consecration107. His father, a great patriot108 of the Revolution, had determined109 that his son should bear into the world a sign of indelible republicanism; so, to the great displeasure of his godmother and the parish curate, Dambergeac was christened by the pagan name of Harmodius. It was a kind of moral tricolor-cockade, which the child was to bear through the vicissitudes110 of all the revolutions to come. Under such influences, my friend’s character began to develop itself, and, fired by the example of his father, and by the warm atmosphere of his native place, Marseilles, he grew up to have an independent spirit, and a grand liberality of politics, which were at their height when first I made his acquaintance.
“He was then a young man of eighteen, with a tall, slim figure, a broad chest, and a flaming black eye, out of all which personal charms he knew how to draw the most advantage; and though his costume was such as Staub might probably have criticised, he had, nevertheless, a style peculiar111 to himself — to himself and the students, among whom he was the leader of the fashion. A tight black coat, buttoned up to the chin, across the chest, set off that part of his person; a low-crowned hat, with a voluminous rim55, cast solemn shadows over a countenance112 bronzed by a southern sun: he wore, at one time, enormous flowing black locks, which he sacrificed pitilessly, however, and adopted a Brutus, as being more revolutionary: finally, he carried an enormous club, that was his code and digest: in like manner, De Retz used to carry a stiletto in his pocket by way of a breviary.
“Although of different ways of thinking in politics, certain sympathies of character and conduct united Dambergeac and myself, and we speedily became close friends. I don’t think, in the whole course of his three years’ residence, Dambergeac ever went through a single course of lectures. For the examinations, he trusted to luck, and to his own facility, which was prodigious72: as for honors, he never aimed at them, but was content to do exactly as little as was necessary for him to gain his degree. In like manner he sedulously113 avoided those horrible circulating libraries, where daily are seen to congregate the ‘reading men’ of our schools. But, in revenge, there was not a milliner’s shop, or a lingère’s, in all our quartier Latin, which he did not industriously114 frequent, and of which he was not the oracle115. Nay, it was said that his victories were not confined to the left bank of the Seine; reports did occasionally come to us of fabulous116 adventures by him accomplished117 in the far regions of the Rue de la Paix and the Boulevard Poissonnière. Such recitals118 were, for us less favored mortals, like tales of Bacchus conquering in the East; they excited our ambition, but not our jealousy119; for the superiority of Harmodius was acknowledged by us all, and we never thought of a rivalry120 with him. No man ever cantered a hack121 through the Champs Elysées with such elegant assurance; no man ever made such a massacre122 of dolls at the shooting-gallery; or won you a rubber at billiards123 with more easy grace; or thundered out a couplet out of Béranger with such a roaring melodious124 bass29. He was the monarch125 of the Prado in winter: in summer of the Chaumière and Mont Parnasse. Not a frequenter of those fashionable places of entertainment showed a more amiable126 laisser-aller in the dance — that peculiar dance at which gendarmes think proper to blush, and which squeamish society has banished127 from her salons. In a word, Harmodius was the prince of mauvais sujets, a youth with all the accomplishments128 of G?ttingen and Jena, and all the eminent129 graces of his own country.
“Besides dissipation and gallantry, our friend had one other vast and absorbing occupation — politics, namely; in which he was as turbulent and enthusiastic as in pleasure. La Patrie was his idol131, his heaven, his nightmare; by day he spouted132, by night he dreamed, of his country. I have spoken to you of his coiffure à la Sylla; need I mention his pipe, his meerschaum pipe, of which General Foy’s head was the bowl; his handkerchief with the Charte printed thereon; and his celebrated tricolor braces134, which kept the rallying sign of his country ever close to his heart? Besides these outward and visible signs of sedition136, he had inward and secret plans of revolution: he belonged to clubs, frequented associations, read the Constitutionnel (Liberals, in those days, swore by the Constitutionnel), harangued137 peers and deputies who had deserved well of their country; and if death happened to fall on such, and the Constitutionnel declared their merit, Harmodius was the very first to attend their obsequies, or to set his shoulder to their coffins138.
“Such were his tastes and passions: his antipathies139 were not less lively. He detested140 three things: a Jesuit, a gendarme103, and a claqueur at a theatre. At this period, missionaries141 were rife142 about Paris, and endeavored to re-illume the zeal143 of the faithful by public preachings in the churches. ‘Infames jesuites!’ would Harmodius exclaim, who, in the excess of his toleration, tolerated nothing; and, at the head of a band of philosophers like himself, would attend with scrupulous144 exactitude the meetings of the reverend gentlemen. But, instead of a contrite145 heart, Harmodius only brought the abomination of desolation into their sanctuary146. A perpetual fire of fulminating balls would bang from under the feet of the faithful; odors of impure147 assafoetida would mingle148 with the fumes149 of the incense150; and wicked drinking choruses would rise up along with the holy canticles, in hideous dissonance, reminding one of the old orgies under the reign151 of the Abbot of Unreason.
“His hatred152 of the gendarmes was equally ferocious153: and as for the claqueurs, woe be to them when Harmodius was in the pit! They knew him, and trembled before him, like the earth before Alexander; and his famous war-cry, ‘La Carte au chapeau!’ was so much dreaded154, that the ‘entrepreneurs de succès dramatiques’ demanded twice as much to do the Odeon Theatre (which we students and Harmodius frequented), as to applaud at any other place of amusement: and, indeed, their double pay was hardly gained; Harmodius taking care that they should earn the most of it under the benches.”
This passage, with which we have taken some liberties, will give the reader a more lively idea of the reckless, jovial, turbulent Paris student, than any with which a foreigner could furnish him: the grisette is his heroine; and dear old Béranger, the cynic-epicurean, has celebrated him and her in the most delightful verses in the world. Of these we may have occasion to say a word or two anon. Meanwhile let us follow Monsieur de Bernard in his amusing descriptions of his countrymen somewhat farther; and, having seen how Dambergeac was a ferocious republican, being a bachelor, let us see how age, sense, and a little government pay — the great agent of conversions155 in France — nay, in England — has reduced him to be a pompous, quiet, loyal supporter of the juste milieu156: his former portrait was that of the student, the present will stand for an admirable lively likeness157 of
THE SOUS-PRéFET.
“Saying that I would wait for Dambergeac in his own study, I was introduced into that apartment, and saw around me the usual furniture of a man in his station. There was, in the middle of the room, a large bureau, surrounded by orthodox arm-chairs; and there were many shelves with boxes duly ticketed; there were a number of maps, and among them a great one of the department over which Dambergeac ruled; and facing the windows, on a wooden pedestal, stood a plaster-cast of the ‘Roi des Fran?ais.’ Recollecting158 my friend’s former republicanism, I smiled at this piece of furniture; but before I had time to carry my observations any farther, a heavy rolling sound of carriage-wheels, that caused the windows to rattle37 and seemed to shake the whole edifice159 of the sub-prefecture, called my attention to the court without. Its iron gates were flung open, and in rolled, with a great deal of din24, a chariot escorted by a brace135 of gendarmes, sword in hand. A tall gentleman, with a cocked-hat and feathers, wearing a blue and silver uniform coat, descended160 from the vehicle; and having, with much grave condescension161, saluted162 his escort, mounted the stair. A moment afterwards the door of the study was opened, and I embraced my friend.
“After the first warmth and salutations, we began to examine each other with an equal curiosity, for eight years had elapsed since we had last met.
“‘You are grown very thin and pale,’ said Harmodius, after a moment.
“‘In revenge I find you fat and rosy164: if I am a walking satire165 on celibacy166 — you, at least, are a living panegyric167 on marriage.’
“In fact a great change, and such an one as many people would call a change for the better, had taken place in my friend: he had grown fat, and announced a decided168 disposition169 to become what French people call a bel homme: that is, a very fat one. His complexion170, bronzed before, was now clear white and red: there were no more political allusions171 in his hair, which was, on the contrary, neatly frizzed, and brushed over the forehead, shell-shape. This head-dress, joined to a thin pair of whiskers, cut crescent-wise from the ear to the nose, gave my friend a regular bourgeois172 physiognomy, wax-doll-like: he looked a great deal too well; and, added to this, the solemnity of his prefectural costume, gave his whole appearance a pompous well-fed look that by no means pleased.
“‘I surprise you,’ said I, ‘in the midst of your splendor173: do you know that this costume and yonder attendants have a look excessively awful and splendid? You entered your palace just now with the air of a pasha.’
“‘You see me in uniform in honor of Monseigneur the Bishop174, who has just made his diocesan visit, and whom I have just conducted to the limit of the arrondissement.’
“‘What!’ said I, ‘you have gendarmes for guards, and dance attendance on bishops175? There are no more janissaries and Jesuits, I suppose?’ The sub-prefect smiled.
“‘I assure you that my gendarmes are very worthy176 fellows; and that among the gentlemen who compose our clergy177 there are some of the very best rank and talent: besides, my wife is niece to one of the vicars-general.’
“‘What have you done with that great Tasso beard that poor Armandine used to love so?’
“‘My wife does not like a beard; and you know that what is permitted to a student is not very becoming to a magistrate178.’
“I began to laugh. ‘Harmodius and a magistrate! — how shall I ever couple the two words together? But tell me, in your correspondences, your audiences, your sittings with village mayors and petty councils, how do you manage to remain awake?’
“‘In the commencement,’ said Harmodius, gravely, ‘it WAS very difficult; and, in order to keep my eyes open, I used to stick pins into my legs: now, however, I am used to it; and I’m sure I don’t take more than fifty pinches of snuff at a sitting.’
“‘Ah! apropos179 of snuff: you are near Spain here, and were always a famous smoker180. Give me a cigar — it will take away the musty odor of these piles of papers.’
“‘Impossible, my dear; I don’t smoke; my wife cannot bear a cigar.’
“His wife! thought I; always his wife: and I remember Juliette, who really grew sick at the smell of a pipe, and Harmodius would smoke, until, at last, the poor thing grew to smoke herself, like a trooper. To compensate181, however, as much as possible for the loss of my cigar, Dambergeac drew from his pocket an enormous gold snuff-box, on which figured the self-same head that I had before remarked in plaster, but this time surrounded with a ring of pretty princes and princesses, all nicely painted in miniature. As for the statue of Louis Philippe, that, in the cabinet of an official, is a thing of course; but the snuff-box seemed to indicate a degree of sentimental182 and personal devotion, such as the old Royalists were only supposed to be guilty of.
“‘What! you are turned decided juste milieu?’ said I.
“‘I am a sous-préfet,’ answered Harmodius.
“I had nothing to say, but held my tongue, wondering, not at the change which had taken place in the habits, manners, and opinions of my friend, but at my own folly183, which led me to fancy that I should find the student of ‘26 in the functionary184 of ‘34. At this moment a domestic appeared.
“‘Madame is waiting for Monsieur,’ said he: ‘the last bell has gone, and mass beginning.’
“‘Mass!’ said I, bounding up from my chair. ‘You at mass like a decent serious Christian185, without crackers186 in your pocket, and bored keys to whistle through?’— The sous-préfet rose, his countenance was calm, and an indulgent smile played upon his lips, as he said, ‘My arrondissement is very devout187; and not to interfere188 with the belief of the population is the maxim189 of every wise politician: I have precise orders from Government on the point, too, and go to eleven o’clock mass every Sunday.”’
There is a great deal of curious matter for speculation190 in the accounts here so wittily191 given by M. de Bernard: but, perhaps, it is still more curious to think of what he has NOT written, and to judge of his characters, not so much by the words in which he describes them, as by the unconscious testimony192 that the words all together convey. In the first place, our author describes a swindler imitating the manners of a dandy; and many swindlers and dandies be there, doubtless, in London as well as in Paris. But there is about the present swindler, and about Monsieur Dambergeac the student, and Monsieur Dambergeac the sous-préfet, and his friend, a rich store of calm internal debauch193, which does not, let us hope and pray, exist in England. Hearken to M. de Gustan, and his smirking194 whispers, about the Duchess of San Severino, who pour son bonheur particulier, &c. &c. Listen to Monsieur Dambergeac’s friend’s remonstrances195 concerning pauvre Juliette who grew sick at the smell of a pipe; to his na?ve admiration196 at the fact that the sous-préfet goes to church: and we may set down, as axioms, that religion is so uncommon197 among the Parisians, as to awaken198 the surprise of all candid199 observers; that gallantry is so common as to create no remark, and to be considered as a matter of course. With us, at least, the converse200 of the proposition prevails: it is the man professing201 irreligion who would be remarked and reprehended202 in England; and, if the second-named vice203 exists, at any rate, it adopts the decency204 of secrecy205 and is not made patent and notorious to all the world. A French gentleman thinks no more of proclaiming that he has a mistress than that he has a tailor; and one lives the time of Boccaccio over again, in the thousand and one French novels which depict206 society in that country.
For instance, here are before us a few specimens207 (do not, madam, be alarmed, you can skip the sentence if you like,) to be found in as many admirable witty208 tales, by the before-lauded Monsieur de Bernard. He is more remarkable209 than any other French author, to our notion, for writing like a gentleman: there is ease, grace and ton, in his style, which, if we judge aright, cannot be discovered in Balzac, or Soulié, or Dumas. We have then —“Gerfaut,” a novel: a lovely creature is married to a brave, haughty210, Alsacian nobleman, who allows her to spend her winters at Paris, he remaining on his terres, cultivating, carousing211, and hunting the boar. The lovely-creature meets the fascinating Gerfaut at Paris; instantly the latter makes love to her; a duel212 takes place: baron213 killed; wife throws herself out of window; Gerfaut plunges214 into dissipation; and so the tale ends.
Next: “La Femme de Quarante Ans,” a capital tale, full of exquisite215 fun and sparkling satire: La femme de quarante ans has a husband and THREE lovers; all of whom find out their mutual216 connection one starry217 night; for the lady of forty is of a romantic poetical218 turn, and has given her three admirers A STAR APIECE; saying to one and the other, “Alphonse, when yon pale orb130 rises in heaven, think of me;” “Isadore, when that bright planet sparkles in the sky, remember your Caroline,” &c.
“Un Acte de Vertu,” from which we have taken Dambergeac’s history, contains him, the husband — a wife — and a brace of lovers; and a great deal of fun takes place in the manner in which one lover supplants219 the other. — Pretty morals truly!
If we examine an author who rejoices in the aristocratic name of le Comte Horace de Viel-Castel, we find, though with infinitely220 less wit, exactly the same intrigues221 going on. A noble Count lives in the Faubourg St. Honoré, and has a noble Duchess for a mistress: he introduces her Grace to the Countess his wife. The Countess his wife, in order to ramener her lord to his conjugal222 duties, is counselled, by a friend, TO PRETEND TO TAKE A LOVER: one is found, who, poor fellow! takes the affair in earnest: climax223 — duel, death, despair, and what not? In the “Faubourg St. Germain,” another novel by the same writer, which professes224 to describe the very pink of that society which Napoleon dreaded more than Russia, Prussia, and Austria, there is an old husband, of course; a sentimental young German nobleman, who falls in love with his wife; and the moral of the piece lies in the showing up of the conduct of the lady, who is reprehended — not for deceiving her husband (poor devil!)— but for being a flirt225, AND TAKING A SECOND LOVER, to the utter despair, confusion, and annihilation of the first.
Why, ye gods, do Frenchmen marry at all? Had Père Enfantin (who, it is said, has shaved his ambrosial226 beard, and is now a clerk in a banking-house) been allowed to carry out his chaste227, just, dignified228 social scheme, what a deal of marital229 discomfort230 might have been avoided:— would it not be advisable that a great reformer and lawgiver of our own, Mr. Robert Owen, should be presented at the Tuileries, and there propound231 his scheme for the regeneration of France?
He might, perhaps, be spared, for our country is not yet sufficiently232 advanced to give such a philosopher fair play. In London, as yet, there are no blessed Bureaux de Mariage, where an old bachelor may have a charming young maiden233 — for his money; or a widow of seventy may buy a gay young fellow of twenty, for a certain number of bank-billets. If mariages de convenance take place here (as they will wherever avarice234, and poverty, and desire, and yearning235 after riches are to be found), at least, thank God, such unions are not arranged upon a regular organized SYSTEM: there is a fiction of attachment236 with us, and there is a consolation237 in the deceit (“the homage,” according to the old mot of Rochefoucauld) “which vice pays to virtue238”; for the very falsehood shows that the virtue exists somewhere. We once heard a furious old French colonel inveighing239 against the chastity of English demoiselles: “Figurez-vous, sir,” said he (he had been a prisoner in England), “that these women come down to dinner in low dresses, and walk out alone with the men!”— and, pray heaven, so may they walk, fancy-free in all sorts of maiden meditations240, and suffer no more molestation241 than that young lady of whom Moore sings, and who (there must have been a famous lord-lieutenant in those days) walked through all Ireland, with rich and rare gems242, beauty, and a gold ring on her stick, without meeting or thinking of harm.
Now, whether Monsieur de Viel-Castel has given a true picture of the Faubourg St. Germain, it is impossible for most foreigners to say; but some of his descriptions will not fail to astonish the English reader; and all are filled with that remarkable na?f contempt of the institution called marriage, which we have seen in M. de Bernard. The romantic young nobleman of Westphalia arrives at Paris, and is admitted into what a celebrated female author calls la crême de la crême de la haute volée of Parisian society. He is a youth of about twenty years of age. “No passion had as yet come to move his heart, and give life to his faculties243; he was awaiting and fearing the moment of love; calling for it, and yet trembling at its approach; feeling in the depths of his soul, that that moment would create a mighty change in his being, and decide, perhaps, by its influence, the whole of his future life.”
Is it not remarkable, that a young nobleman, with these ideas, should not pitch upon a demoiselle, or a widow, at least? but no, the rogue must have a married woman, bad luck to him; and what his fate is to be, is thus recounted by our author, in the shape of
A FRENCH FASHIONABLE CONVERSATION.
“A lady, with a great deal of esprit, to whom forty years’ experience of the great world had given a prodigious perspicacity244 of judgment245, the Duchess of Chalux, arbitress of the opinion to be held on all new comers to the Faubourg Saint Germain, and of their destiny and reception in it; — one of those women, in a word, who make or ruin a man — said, in speaking of Gerard de Stolberg, whom she received at her own house, and met everywhere, ‘This young German will never gain for himself the title of an exquisite, or a man of bonnes fortunes, among us. In spite of his calm and politeness, I think I can see in his character some rude and insurmountable difficulties, which time will only increase, and which will prevent him for ever from bending to the exigencies246 of either profession; but, unless I very much deceive myself, he will, one day, be the hero of a veritable romance.’
“‘He, madame?’ answered a young man, of fair complexion and fair hair, one of the most devoted247 slaves of the fashion:—‘He, Madame la Duchesse? why, the man is, at best, but an original, fished out of the Rhine: a dull, heavy creature, as much capable of understanding a woman’s heart as I am of speaking bas-Breton.’
“‘Well, Monsieur de Belport, you will speak bas-Breton. Monsieur de Stolberg has not your admirable ease of manner, nor your facility of telling pretty nothings, nor your — in a word, that particular something which makes you the most recherché man of the Faubourg Saint Germain; and even I avow249 to you that, were I still young, and a coquette, AND THAT I TOOK IT INTO MY HEAD TO HAVE A LOVER, I would prefer you.’
“All this was said by the Duchess, with a certain air of raillery and such a mixture of earnest and malice250, that Monsieur de Belport, piqued251 not a little, could not help saying, as he bowed profoundly before the Duchess’s chair, ‘And might I, madam, be permitted to ask the reason of this preference?’
“‘O mon Dieu, oui,’ said the Duchess, always in the same tone; ‘because a lover like you would never think of carrying his attachment to the height of passion; and these passions, do you know, have frightened me all my life. One cannot retreat at will from the grasp of a passionate252 lover; one leaves behind one some fragment of one’s moral SELF, or the best part of one’s physical life. A passion, if it does not kill you, adds cruelly to your years; in a word, it is the very lowest possible taste. And now you understand why I should prefer you, M. de Belport — you who are reputed to be the leader of the fashion.’
“‘Perfectly,’ murmured the gentleman, piqued more and more.
“‘Gerard de Stolberg WILL be passionate. I don’t know what woman will please him, or will be pleased by him’ (here the Duchess of Chalux spoke133 more gravely); ‘but his love will be no play, I repeat it to you once more. All this astonishes you, because you, great leaders of the ton that you are, never fancy that a hero of romance should be found among your number. Gerard de Stolberg — but, look, here he comes!’
“M. de Belport rose, and quitted the Duchess, without believing in her prophecy; but he could not avoid smiling as he passed near the HERO OF ROMANCE.
“It was because M. de Stolberg had never, in all his life, been a hero of romance, or even an apprentice-hero of romance.
“Gerard de Stolberg was not, as yet, initiated253 into the thousand secrets in the chronicle of the great world: he knew but superficially the society in which he lived; and, therefore, he devoted his evening to the gathering254 of all the information which he could acquire from the indiscreet conversations of the people about him. His whole man became ear and memory; so much was Stolberg convinced of the necessity of becoming a diligent255 student in this new school, where was taught the art of knowing and advancing in the great world. In the recess256 of a window he learned more on this one night than months of investigation257 would have taught him. The talk of a ball is more indiscreet than the confidential258 chatter259 of a company of idle women. No man present at a ball, whether listener or speaker, thinks he has a right to affect any indulgence for his companions, and the most learned in malice will always pass for the most witty.
“‘How!’ said the Viscount de Mondragé: ‘the Duchess of Rivesalte arrives alone to-night, without her inevitable260 Dormilly!’— And the Viscount, as he spoke, pointed261 towards a tall and slender young woman, who, gliding262 rather than walking, met the ladies by whom she passed, with a graceful263 and modest salute163, and replied to the looks of the men BY BRILLIANT VEILED GLANCES FULL OF COQUETRY AND ATTACK.
“‘Parbleu!’ said an elegant personage standing248 near the Viscount de Mondragé, ‘don’t you see Dormilly ranged behind the Duchess, in quality of train-bearer, and hiding, under his long locks and his great screen of moustaches, the blushing consciousness of his good luck? — They call him THE FOURTH CHAPTER of the Duchess’s memoirs264. The little Marquise d’Alberas is ready to die out of spite; but the best of the joke is, that she has only taken poor de Vendre for a lover in order to vent84 her spleen on him. Look at him against the chimney yonder; if the Marchioness do not break at once with him by quitting him for somebody else, the poor fellow will turn an idiot.’
“‘Is he jealous?’ asked a young man, looking as if he did not know what jealousy was and as if he had no time to be jealous.
“‘Jealous! the very incarnation of jealousy; the second edition, revised, corrected, and considerably265 enlarged; as jealous as poor Gressigny, who is dying of it.’
“‘What! Gressigny too? why, ’tis growing quite into fashion: egad! I must try and be jealous,’ said Monsieur de Beauval. ‘But see! here comes the delicious Duchess of Bellefiore,’” &c. &c. &c.
Enough, enough: this kind of fashionable Parisian conversation, which is, says our author, “a prodigious labor52 of improvising,” a “chef-d’oeuvre,” a “strange and singular thing, in which monotony is unknown,” seems to be, if correctly reported, a “strange and singular thing” indeed; but somewhat monotonous266 at least to an English reader, and “prodigious” only, if we may take leave to say so, for the wonderful rascality267 which all the conversationists betray. Miss Neverout and the Colonel, in Swift’s famous dialogue, are a thousand times more entertaining and moral; and, besides, we can laugh AT those worthies268 as well as with them; whereas the “prodigious” French wits are to us quite incomprehensible. Fancy a duchess as old as Lady —— herself, and who should begin to tell us “of what she would do if ever she had a mind to take a lover;” and another duchess, with a fourth lover, tripping modestly among the ladies, and returning the gaze of the men by veiled glances, full of coquetry and attack! — Parbleu, if Monsieur de Viel-Castel should find himself among a society of French duchesses, and they should tear his eyes out, and send the fashionable Orpheus floating by the Seine, his slaughter269 might almost be considered as justifiable270 COUNTICIDE.
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1
pawned
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| v.典当，抵押( pawn的过去式和过去分词 )；以（某事物）担保 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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noxious
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| adj.有害的，有毒的；使道德败坏的，讨厌的 | |
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draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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fumble
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| vi.笨拙地用手摸、弄、接等，摸索 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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hordes
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| n.移动着的一大群( horde的名词复数 )；部落 | |
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jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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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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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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stoutest
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| 粗壮的( stout的最高级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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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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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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28
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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pumpkin
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| n.南瓜 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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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
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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47
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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48
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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49
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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50
outraging
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的现在分词 ) | |
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51
labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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52
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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53
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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54
rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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55
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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56
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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57
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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58
decanting
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| n.滗析（手续）v.将（酒等）自瓶中倒入另一容器( decant的现在分词 ) | |
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59
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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60
enchantments
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| n.魅力( enchantment的名词复数 )；迷人之处；施魔法；着魔 | |
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61
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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63
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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64
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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consecrate
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| v.使圣化，奉…为神圣；尊崇；奉献 | |
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67
negotiation
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| n.谈判，协商 | |
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68
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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69
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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70
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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71
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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72
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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73
prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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74
goblet
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| n.高脚酒杯 | |
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75
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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76
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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77
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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78
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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79
oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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80
adjourn
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| v.（使）休会，（使）休庭 | |
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81
doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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82
salons
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|
| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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83
carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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84
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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85
delirious
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|
| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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86
frantic
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|
| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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87
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
hideous
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|
| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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89
vend
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| v.公开表明观点，出售，贩卖 | |
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90
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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91
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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92
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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93
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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94
trumpets
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|
| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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95
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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97
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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98
amuck
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| ad.狂乱地 | |
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99
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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100
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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101
congregate
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| v.(使)集合，聚集 | |
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102
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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103
gendarme
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| n.宪兵 | |
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104
gendarmes
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| n.宪兵，警官( gendarme的名词复数 ) | |
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105
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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106
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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107
consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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108
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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109
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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110
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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111
peculiar
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|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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112
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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113
sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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114
industriously
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115
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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116
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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117
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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118
recitals
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| n.独唱会( recital的名词复数 )；独奏会；小型音乐会、舞蹈表演会等；一系列事件等的详述 | |
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119
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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120
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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121
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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122
massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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123
billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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124
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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125
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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126
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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127
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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129
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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130
orb
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| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
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131
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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132
spouted
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| adj.装有嘴的v.（指液体）喷出( spout的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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133
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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134
braces
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|
| n.吊带，背带；托架( brace的名词复数 )；箍子；括弧；（儿童）牙箍v.支住( brace的第三人称单数 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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135
brace
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|
| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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136
sedition
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| n.煽动叛乱 | |
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137
harangued
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|
| v.高谈阔论( harangue的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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139
antipathies
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|
| 反感( antipathy的名词复数 )； 引起反感的事物； 憎恶的对象； （在本性、倾向等方面的）不相容 | |
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140
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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141
missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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142
rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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143
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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144
scrupulous
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|
| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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145
contrite
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|
| adj.悔悟了的，后悔的，痛悔的 | |
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146
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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147
impure
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| adj.不纯净的，不洁的；不道德的，下流的 | |
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148
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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149
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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150
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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151
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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152
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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153
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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154
dreaded
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|
| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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155
conversions
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|
| 变换( conversion的名词复数 )； （宗教、信仰等）彻底改变； （尤指为居住而）改建的房屋； 橄榄球（触地得分后再把球射中球门的）附加得分 | |
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156
milieu
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| n.环境；出身背景；(个人所处的)社会环境 | |
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157
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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158
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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159
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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160
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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161
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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162
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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163
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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164
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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165
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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166
celibacy
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| n.独身(主义) | |
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167
panegyric
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| n.颂词，颂扬 | |
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168
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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169
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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170
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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171
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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172
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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173
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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174
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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175
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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176
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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177
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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178
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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179
apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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180
smoker
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| n.吸烟者，吸烟车厢，吸烟室 | |
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181
compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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182
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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183
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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184
functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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185
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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186
crackers
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| adj.精神错乱的，癫狂的n.爆竹( cracker的名词复数 )；薄脆饼干；（认为）十分愉快的事；迷人的姑娘 | |
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187
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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188
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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189
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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190
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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191
wittily
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| 机智地，机敏地 | |
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192
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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193
debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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194
smirking
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| v.傻笑( smirk的现在分词 ) | |
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195
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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196
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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197
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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198
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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199
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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200
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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201
professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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202
reprehended
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| v.斥责，指摘，责备( reprehend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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203
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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204
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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205
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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206
depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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207
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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208
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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209
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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210
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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211
carousing
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| v.痛饮，闹饮欢宴( carouse的现在分词 ) | |
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212
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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213
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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214
plunges
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| n.跳进，投入vt.使投入，使插入，使陷入vi.投入，跳进，陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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215
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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217
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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218
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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219
supplants
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| 把…排挤掉，取代( supplant的第三人称单数 ) | |
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220
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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221
intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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222
conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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223
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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224
professes
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| 声称( profess的第三人称单数 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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225
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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226
ambrosial
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| adj.美味的 | |
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227
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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229
marital
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妻的 | |
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230
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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231
propound
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| v.提出 | |
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232
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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233
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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234
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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235
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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236
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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237
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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238
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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239
inveighing
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| v.猛烈抨击，痛骂，谩骂( inveigh的现在分词 ) | |
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240
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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241
molestation
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| n.骚扰，干扰，调戏；折磨 | |
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242
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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243
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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244
perspicacity
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| n. 敏锐, 聪明, 洞察力 | |
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245
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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246
exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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247
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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248
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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249
avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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250
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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251
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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252
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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253
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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254
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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255
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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256
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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257
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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258
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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259
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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260
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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261
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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262
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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263
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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264
memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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265
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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266
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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267
rascality
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| 流氓性，流氓集团 | |
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268
worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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269
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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270
justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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