Silence lay over the neighboring gardens, and the boulevards stretching away to the Invalides. Day scarcely begins at noon in that aristocratic quarter, and masters and servants are all alike asleep, or just awakening6, unless some young lady takes it into her head to go for an early ride, or a gray-headed diplomatist rises betimes to redraft a protocol7.
The elderly lady stirring abroad at that hour was the Marquise d’Aiglemont, the mother of Mme. de Saint–Hereen, to whom the great house belonged. The Marquise had made over the mansion and almost her whole fortune to her daughter, reserving only an annuity8 for herself.
The Comtesse Moina de Saint–Hereen was Mme. d’Aiglemont’s youngest child. The Marquise had made every sacrifice to marry her daughter to the eldest9 son of one of the greatest houses of France; and this was only what might have been expected, for the lady had lost her sons, first one and then the other. Gustave, Marquis d’Aiglemont, had died of the cholera10; Abel, the second, had fallen in Algeria. Gustave had left a widow and children, but the dowager’s affection for her sons had been only moderately warm, and for the next generation it was decidedly tepid11. She was always civil to her daughter-inlaw, but her feeling towards the young Marquise was the distinctly conventional affection which good taste and good manners require us to feel for our relatives. The fortunes of her dead children having been settled, she could devote her savings12 and her own property to her darling Moina.
Moina, beautiful and fascinating from childhood, was Mme. d’Aiglemont’s favorite; loved beyond all the others with an instinctive13 or involuntary love, a fatal drawing of the heart, which sometimes seems inexplicable14, sometimes, and to a close observer, only too easy to explain. Her darling’s pretty face, the sound of Moina’s voice, her ways, her manner, her looks and gestures, roused all the deepest emotions that can stir a mother’s heart with trouble, rapture15, or delight. The springs of the Marquise’s life, of yesterday, tomorrow, and today, lay in that young heart. Moina, with better fortune, had survived four older children. As a matter of fact, Mme. d’Aiglemont had lost her eldest daughter, a charming girl, in a most unfortunate manner, said gossip, nobody knew exactly what became of her; and then she lost a little boy of five by a dreadful accident.
The child of her affections had, however, been spared to her, and doubtless the Marquise saw the will of Heaven in that fact; for those who had died, she kept but very shadowy recollections in some far-off corner of her heart; her memories of her dead children were like the headstones on a battlefield, you can scarcely see them for the flowers that have sprung up about them since. Of course, if the world had chosen, it might have said some hard truths about the Marquise, might have taken her to task for shallowness and an overweening preference for one child at the expense of the rest; but the world of Paris is swept along by the full flood of new events, new ideas, and new fashions, and it was inevitable17 the Mme. d’Aiglemont should be in some sort allowed to drop out of sight. So nobody thought of blaming her for coldness or neglect which concerned no one, whereas her quick, apprehensive18 tenderness for Moina was found highly interesting by not a few who respected it as a sort of superstition19. Besides, the Marquise scarcely went into society at all; and the few families who knew her thought of her as a kindly20, gentle, indulgent woman, wholly devoted21 to her family. What but a curiosity, keen indeed, would seek to pry22 beneath the surface with which the world is quite satisfied? And what would we not pardon to old people, if only they will efface23 themselves like shadows, and consent to be regarded as memories and nothing more!
Indeed, Mme. d’Aiglemont became a kind of example complacently24 held up by the younger generation to fathers of families, and frequently cited to mothers-inlaw. She had made over her property to Moina in her own lifetime; the young Countess’ happiness was enough for her, she only lived in her daughter. If some cautious old person or morose25 uncle here and there condemned27 the course with —“Perhaps Mme. d’Aiglemont may be sorry some day that she gave up her fortune to her daughter; she may be sure of Moina, but how can she be equally sure of her son-inlaw?”— these prophets were cried down on all sides, and from all sides a chorus of praise went up for Moina.
“It ought to be said, in justice to Mme. de Saint–Hereen, that her mother cannot feel the slightest difference,” remarked a young married woman. “Mme. d’Aiglemont is admirably well housed. She has a carriage at her disposal, and can go everywhere just as she used to do —”
“Except to the Italiens,” remarked a low voice. (This was an elderly parasite28, one of those persons who show their independence — as they think — by riddling29 their friends with epigrams.) “Except to the Italiens. And if the dowager cares for anything on this earth but her daughter — it is music. Such a good performer she was in her time! But the Countess’ box is always full of young butterflies, and the Countess’ mother would be in the way; the young lady is talked about already as a great flirt30. So the poor mother never goes to the Italiens.”
“Mme. de Saint–Hereen has delightful31 ‘At Homes’ for her mother,” said a rosebud32. “All Paris goes to her salon33.
“And no one pays any attention to the Marquise,” returned the parasite.
“The fact is that Mme. d’Aiglemont is never alone,” remarked a coxcomb34, siding with the young women.
“In the morning,” the old observer continued in a discreet35 voice, “in the morning dear Moina is asleep. At four o’clock dear Moina drives in the Bois. In the evening dear Moina goes to a ball or to the Bouffes. — Still, it is certainly true that Mme. d’Aiglemont has the privilege of seeing her dear daughter while she dresses, and again at dinner, if dear Moina happens to dine with her mother. Not a week ago, sir,” continued the elderly person, laying his hand on the arm of the shy tutor, a new arrival in the house, “not a week ago, I saw the poor mother, solitary36 and sad, by her own fireside. —‘What is the matter?’ I asked. The Marquise looked up smiling, but I am quite sure that she had been crying. —‘I was thinking that it is a strange thing that I should be left alone when I have had five children,’ she said, ‘but that is our destiny! And besides, I am happy when I know that Moina is enjoying herself.’— She could say that to me, for I knew her husband when he was alive. A poor stick he was, and uncommonly37 lucky to have such a wife; it was certainly owing to her that he was made a peer of France, and had a place at Court under Charles X.”
Yet such mistaken ideas get about in social gossip, and such mischief38 is done by it, that the historian of manners is bound to exercise his discretion39, and weigh the assertions so recklessly made. After all, who is to say that either mother or daughter was right or wrong? There is but One who can read and judge their hearts! And how often does He wreak40 His vengeance41 in the family circle, using throughout all time children as His instruments against their mothers, and fathers against their sons, raising up peoples against kings, and princes against peoples, sowing strife42 and division everywhere? And in the world of ideas, are not opinions and feelings expelled by new feelings and opinions, much as withered43 leaves are thrust forth44 by the young leaf-buds in the spring? — all in obedience45 to the immutable46 Scheme; all to some end which God alone knows. Yet, surely, all things proceed to Him, or rather, to Him all things return.
Such thoughts of religion, the natural thoughts of age, floated up now and again on the current of Mme. d’Aiglemont’s thoughts; they were always dimly present in her mind, but sometimes they shone out clearly, sometimes they were carried under, like flowers tossed on the vexed47 surface of a stormy sea.
She sat on a garden-seat, tired with walking, exhausted48 with much thinking — with the long thoughts in which a whole lifetime rises up before the mind, and is spread out like a scroll49 before the eyes of those who feel that Death is near.
If a poet had chanced to pass along the boulevard, he would have found an interesting picture in the face of this woman, grown old before her time. As she sat under the dotted shadow of the acacia, the shadow the acacia casts at noon, a thousand thoughts were written for all the world to see on her features, pale and cold even in the hot, bright sunlight. There was something sadder than the sense of waning51 life in that expressive52 face, some trouble that went deeper than the weariness of experience. It was a face of a type that fixes you in a moment among a host of characterless faces that fail to draw a second glance, a face to set you thinking. Among a thousand pictures in a gallery, you are strongly impressed by the sublime53 anguish54 on the face of some Madonna of Murillo’s; by some Beatrice Cenci in which Guido’s art portrays55 the most touching56 innocence57 against a background of horror and crime; by the awe58 and majesty59 that should encircle a king, caught once and for ever by Velasquez in the sombre face of a Philip II., and so is it with some living human faces; they are tyrannous pictures which speak to you, submit you to searching scrutiny60, and give response to your inmost thoughts, nay61, there are faces that set forth a whole drama, and Mme. d’Aiglemont’s stony62 face was one of these awful tragedies, one of such faces as Dante Alighieri saw by thousands in his vision.
For the little season that a woman’s beauty is in flower it serves her admirably well in the dissimulation63 to which her natural weakness and our social laws condemn26 her. A young face and rich color, and eyes that glow with light, a gracious maze64 of such subtle, manifold lines and curves, flawless and perfectly65 traced, is a screen that hides everything that stirs the woman within. A flush tells nothing, it only heightens the coloring so brilliant already; all the fires that burn within can add little light to the flame of life in eyes which only seem the brighter for the flash of a passing pain. Nothing is so discreet as a young face, for nothing is less mobile; it has the serenity66, the surface smoothness, and the freshness of a lake. There is not character in women’s faces before the age of thirty. The painter discovers nothing there but pink and white, and the smile and expression that repeat the same thought in the same way — a thought of youth and love that goes no further than youth and love. But the face of an old woman has expressed all that lay in her nature; passion has carved lines on her features; love and wifehood and motherhood, and extremes of joy and anguish, having wrung67 them, and left their traces in a thousand wrinkles, all of which speak a language of their own; then it is that a woman’s face becomes sublime in its horror, beautiful in its melancholy68, grand in its calm. If it is permissible69 to carry the strange metaphor70 still further, it might be said that in the dried-up lake you can see the traces of all the torrents71 that once poured into it and made it what it is. An old face is nothing to the frivolous72 world; the frivolous world is shocked by the sight of the destruction of such comeliness73 as it can understand; a commonplace artist sees nothing there. An old face is the province of the poets among poets of those who can recognize that something which is called Beauty, apart from all the conventions underlying74 so many superstitions75 in art and taste.
Though Mme. d’Aiglemont wore a fashionable bonnet76, it was easy to see that her once black hair had been bleached77 by cruel sorrows; yet her good taste and the gracious acquired instincts of a woman of fashion could be seen in the way she wore it, divided into two bandeaux, following the outlines of a forehead that still retained some traces of former dazzling beauty, worn and lined though it was. The contours of her face, the regularity78 of her features, gave some idea, faint in truth, of that beauty of which surely she had once been proud; but those traces spoke79 still more plainly of the anguish which had laid it waste, of sharp pain that had withered the temples, and made those hollows in her cheeks, and empurpled the eyelids80, and robbed them of their lashes81, and the eyes of their charm. She was in every way so noiseless; she moved with a slow, self-contained gravity that showed itself in her whole bearing, and struck a certain awe into others. Her diffident manner had changed to positive shyness, due apparently82 to a habit now of some years’ growth, of effacing83 herself in her daughter’s presence. She spoke very seldom, and in the low tones used by those who perforce must live within themselves a life of reflection and concentration. This demeanor84 led others to regard her with an indefinable feeling which was neither awe nor compassion85, but a mysterious blending of the many ideas awakened86 in us by compassion and awe. Finally, there was something in her wrinkles, in the lines of her face, in the look of pain in those wan50 eyes of hers, that bore eloquent87 testimony88 to tears that never had fallen, tears that had been absorbed by her heart. Unhappy creatures, accustomed to raise their eyes to heaven, in mute appeal against the bitterness of their lot, would have seen at once from her eyes that she was broken in to the cruel discipline of ceaseless prayer, would have discerned the almost imperceptible symptoms of the secret bruises89 which destroy all the flowers of the soul, even the sentiment of motherhood.
Painters have colors for these portraits, but words, and the mental images called up by words, fail to reproduce such impressions faithfully; there are mysterious signs and tokens in the tones of the coloring and in the look of human faces, which the mind only seizes through the sense of sight; and the poet is fain to record the tale of the events which wrought91 the havoc92 to make their terrible ravages93 understood.
The face spoke of cold and steady storm, an inward conflict between a mother’s long-suffering and the limitations of our nature, for our human affections are bounded by our humanity, and the infinite has no place in finite creatures. Sorrow endured in silence had at last produced an indefinable morbid94 something in this woman. Doubtless mental anguish had reacted on the physical frame, and some disease, perhaps an aneurism, was undermining Julie’s life. Deep-seated grief lies to all appearance very quietly in the depths where it is conceived, yet, so still and apparently dormant95 as it is, it ceaselessly corrodes96 the soul, like the terrible acid which eats away crystal.
Two tears made their way down the Marquise’s cheeks; she rose to her feet as if some thought more poignant97 than any that preceded it had cut her to the quick. She had doubtless come to a conclusion as to Moina’s future; and now, foreseeing clearly all the troubles in store for her child, the sorrows of her own unhappy life had begun to weigh once more upon her. The key of her position must be sought in her daughter’s situation.
The Comte de Saint–Hereen had been away for nearly six months on a political mission. The Countess, whether from sheer giddiness, or in obedience to the countless98 instincts of woman’s coquetry, or to essay its power — with all the vanity of a frivolous fine lady, all the capricious waywardness of a child — was amusing herself, during her husband’s absence, by playing with the passion of a clever but heartless man, distracted (so he said) with love, the love that combines readily with every petty social ambition of a self-conceited coxcomb. Mme. d’Aiglemont, whose long experience had given her a knowledge of life, and taught her to judge of men and to dread16 the world, watched the course of this flirtation99, and saw that it could only end in one way, if her daughter should fall into the hands of an utterly100 unscrupulous intriguer101. How could it be other than a terrible thought for her that her daughter listened willingly to this roue? Her darling stood on the brink102 of a precipice103, she felt horribly sure of it, yet dared not hold her back. She was afraid of the Countess. She knew too that Moina would not listen to her wise warnings; she knew that she had no influence over that nature — iron for her, silken-soft for all others. Her mother’s tenderness might have led her to sympathize with the troubles of a passion called forth by the nobler qualities of a lover, but this was no passion — it was coquetry, and the Marquise despised Alfred de Vandenesse, knowing that he had entered upon this flirtation with Moina as if it were a game of chess.
But if Alfred de Vandenesse made her shudder104 with disgust, she was obliged — unhappy mother! — to conceal105 the strongest reason for her loathing106 in the deepest recesses107 of her heart. She was on terms of intimate friendship with the Marquis de Vandenesse, the young man’s father; and this friendship, a respectable one in the eyes of the world, excused the son’s constant presence in the house, he professing108 an old attachment109, dating from childhood, for Mme. de Saint–Hereen. More than this, in vain did Mme. d’Aiglemont nerve herself to come between Moina and Alfred de Vandenesse with a terrible word, knowing beforehand that she should not succeed; knowing that the strong reason which ought to separate them would carry no weight; that she should humiliate110 herself vainly in her daughter’s eyes. Alfred was too corrupt111; Moina too clever to believe the revelation; the young Countess would turn it off and treat it as a piece of maternal112 strategy. Mme. d’Aiglemont had built her prison walls with her own hands; she had immured113 herself only to see Moina’s happiness ruined thence before she died; she was to look on helplessly at the ruin of the young life which had been her pride and joy and comfort, a life a thousand times dearer to her than her own. What words can describe anguish so hideous114 beyond belief, such unfathomed depths of pain?
She waited for Moina to rise, with the impatience115 and sickening dread of a doomed116 man, who longs to have done with life, and turns cold at the thought of the headsman. She had braced117 herself for a last effort, but perhaps the prospect118 of the certain failure of the attempt was less dreadful to her than the fear of receiving yet again one of those thrusts that went to her very heart — before that fear her courage ebbed119 away. Her mother’s love had come to this. To love her child, to be afraid of her, to shrink from the thought of the stab, yet to go forward. So great is a mother’s affection in a loving nature, that before it can fade away into indifference120 the mother herself must die or find support in some great power without her, in religion or another love. Since the Marquise rose that morning, her fatal memory had called up before her some of those things, so slight to all appearance, that make landmarks121 in a life. Sometimes, indeed, a whole tragedy grows out of a single gesture; the tone in which a few words were spoken rends123 a whole life in two; a glance into indifferent eyes is the deathblow of the gladdest love; and, unhappily, such gestures and such words were only too familiar to Mme. d’Aiglemont — she had met so many glances that wound the soul. No, there was nothing in those memories to bid her hope. On the contrary, everything went to show that Alfred had destroyed her hold on her daughter’s heart, that the thought of her was now associated with duty — not with gladness. In ways innumerable, in things that were mere124 trifles in themselves, the Countess’ detestable conduct rose up before her mother; and the Marquise, it may be, looked on Moina’s undutifulness as a punishment, and found excuses for her daughter in the will of Heaven, that so she still might adore the hand that smote125 her.
All these things passed through her memory that morning, and each recollection wounded her afresh so sorely, that with a very little additional pain her brimming cup of bitterness must have overflowed126. A cold look might kill her.
The little details of domestic life are difficult to paint; but one or two perhaps will suffice to give an idea of the rest.
The Marquise d’Aiglemont, for instance, had grown rather deaf, but she could never induce Moina to raise her voice for her. Once, with the naivete of suffering, she had begged Moina to repeat some remark which she had failed to catch, and Moina obeyed, but with so bad a grace, the Mme. d’Aiglemont had never permitted herself to make her modest request again. Ever since that day when Moina was talking or retailing127 a piece of news, her mother was careful to come near to listen; but this infirmity of deafness appeared to put the Countess out of patience, and she would grumble128 thoughtlessly about it. This instance is one from among very many that must have gone to the mother’s heart; and yet nearly all of them might have escaped a close observer, they consisted in faint shades of manner invisible to any but a woman’s eyes. Take another example. Mme. d’Aiglemont happened to say one day that the Princesse de Cadignan had called upon her. “Did she come to see you!” Moina exclaimed. That was all, but the Countess’ voice and manner expressed surprise and well-bred contempt in semitones. Any heart, still young and sensitive, might well have applauded the philanthropy of savage129 tribes who kill off their old people when they grow too feeble to cling to a strongly shaken bough130. Mme. d’Aiglemont rose smiling, and went away to weep alone.
Well-bred people, and women especially, only betray their feelings by imperceptible touches; but those who can look back over their own experience on such bruises as this mother’s heart received, know also how the heart-strings vibrate to these light touches. Overcome by her memories, Mme. d’Aiglemont recollected131 one of those microscopically132 small things, so stinging and so painful was it that never till this moment had she felt all the heartless contempt that lurked133 beneath smiles.
At the sound of shutters134 thrown back at her daughter’s windows, she dried her tears, and hastened up the pathway by the railings. As she went, it struck her that the gardener had been unusually careful to rake the sand along the walk which had been neglected for some little time. As she stood under her daughter’s windows, the shutters were hastily closed.
“Moina, is it you?” she asked.
No answer.
The Marquise went on into the house.
“Mme. la Comtesse is in the little drawing-room,” said the maid, when the Marquise asked whether Mme. de Saint–Hereen had finished dressing135.
Mme. d’Aiglemont hurried to the little drawing-room; her heart was too full, her brain too busy to notice matters so slight; but there on the sofa sat the Countess in her loose morning-gown, her hair in disorder136 under the cap tossed carelessly on he head, her feet thrust into slippers137. The key of her bedroom hung at her girdle. Her face, aglow138 with color, bore traces of almost stormy thought.
“What makes people come in!” she cried, crossly. “Oh! it is you, mother,” she interrupted herself, with a preoccupied139 look.
“Yes, child; it is your mother ——”
Something in her tone turned those words into an outpouring of the heart, the cry of some deep inward feeling, only to be described by the word “holy.” So thoroughly140 in truth had she rehabilitated141 the sacred character of a mother, that her daughter was impressed, and turned towards her, with something of awe, uneasiness, and remorse142 in her manner. The room was the furthest of a suite143, and safe from indiscreet intrusion, for no one could enter it without giving warning of approach through the previous apartments. The Marquise closed the door.
“It is my duty, my child, to warn you in one of the most serious crises in the lives of us women; you have perhaps reached it unconsciously, and I am come to speak to you as a friend rather than as a mother. When you married, you acquired freedom of action; you are only accountable to your husband now; but I asserted my authority so little (perhaps I was wrong), that I think I have a right to expect you to listen to me, for once at least, in a critical position when you must need counsel. Bear in mind, Moina that you are married to a man of high ability, a man of whom you may well be proud, a man who —”
“I know what you are going to say, mother!” Moina broke in pettishly144. “I am to be lectured about Alfred —”
“Moina,” the Marquise said gravely, as she struggled with her tears, “you would not guess at once if you did not feel —”
“What?” asked Moina, almost haughtily145. “Why, really, mother —”
Mme. d’Aiglemont summoned up all her strength. “Moina,” she said, “you must attend carefully to this that I ought to tell you —”
“I am attending,” returned the Countess, folding her arms, and affecting insolent146 submission147. “Permit me, mother, to ring for Pauline,” she added with incredible self-possession; “I will send her away first.”
She rang the bell.
“My dear child, Pauline cannot possibly hear —”
“Mamma,” interrupted the Countess, with a gravity which must have struck her mother as something unusual, “I must —”
She stopped short, for the woman was in the room.
“Pauline, go yourself to Baudran’s, and ask why my hat has not yet been sent.”
Then the Countess reseated herself and scrutinized148 her mother. The Marquise, with a swelling149 heart and dry eyes, in painful agitation150, which none but a mother can fully90 understand, began to open Moina’s eyes to the risk that she was running. But either the Countess felt hurt and indignant at her mother’s suspicions of a son of the Marquis de Vandenesse, or she was seized with a sudden fit of inexplicable levity151 caused by the inexperience of youth. She took advantage of a pause.
“Mamma, I thought you were only jealous of the father —” she said, with a forced laugh.
Mme. d’Aiglemont shut her eyes and bent152 her head at the words, with a very faint, almost inaudible sigh. She looked up and out into space, as if she felt the common overmastering impulse to appeal to God at the great crises of our lives; then she looked at her daughter, and her eyes were full of awful majesty and the expression of profound sorrow.
“My child,” she said, and her voice was hardly recognizable, “you have been less merciful to your mother than he against whom she sinned; less merciful than perhaps God Himself will be!”
Mme. d’Aiglemont rose; at the door she turned; but she saw nothing but surprise in her daughter’s face. She went out. Scarcely had she reached the garden when her strength failed her. There was a violent pain at her heart, and she sank down on a bench. As her eyes wandered over the path, she saw fresh marks on the path, a man’s footprints were distinctly recognizable. It was too late, then, beyond a doubt. Now she began to understand the reason for that order given to Pauline, and with these torturing thoughts came a revelation more hateful than any that had gone before it. She drew her own inferences — the son of the Marquis de Vandenesse had destroyed all feeling of respect for her in her daughter’s mind. The physical pain grew worse; by degrees she lost consciousness, and sat like one asleep upon the garden-seat.
The Countess de Saint–Hereen, left to herself, thought that her mother had given her a somewhat shrewd home-thrust, but a kiss and a few attentions that evening would make all right again.
A shrill153 cry came from the garden. She leaned carelessly out, as Pauline, not yet departed on her errand, called out for help, holding the Marquise in her arms.
“Do not frighten my daughter!” those were the last words the mother uttered.
Moina saw them carry in a pale and lifeless form that struggled for breath, and arms moving restlessly as in protest or effort to speak; and overcome by the sight, Moina followed in silence, and helped to undress her mother and lay her on her bed. The burden of her fault was greater than she could bear. In that supreme154 hour she learned to know her mother — too late, she could make no reparation now. She would have them leave her alone with her mother; and when there was no one else in the room, when she felt that the hand which had always been so tender for her was now grown cold to her touch, she broke out into weeping. Her tears aroused the Marquise; she could still look at her darling Moina; and at the sound of sobbing155, that seemed as if it must rend122 the delicate, disheveled breast, could smile back at her daughter. That smile taught the unnatural156 child that forgiveness is always to be found in the great deep of a mother’s heart.
Servants on horseback had been dispatched at once for the physician and surgeon and for Mme. d’Aiglemont’s grandchildren. Mme. d’Aiglemont the younger and her little sons arrived with the medical men, a sufficiently157 impressive, silent, and anxious little group, which the servants of the house came to join. The young Marquise, hearing no sound, tapped gently at the door. That signal, doubtless, roused Moina from her grief, for she flung open the doors and stood before them. No words could have spoken more plainly than that disheveled figure looking out with haggard eyes upon the assembled family. Before that living picture of Remorse the rest were dumb. It was easy to see that the Marquise’s feet were stretched out stark158 and stiff with the agony of death; and Moina, leaning against the door-frame, looking into their faces, spoke in a hollow voice:
“I have lost my mother!”
PARIS, 1828–1844.
The End
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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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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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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protocol
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| n.议定书，草约，会谈记录，外交礼节 | |
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annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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cholera
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| n.霍乱 | |
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tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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savings
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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19
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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20
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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21
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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22
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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23
efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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24
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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25
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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26
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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27
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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28
parasite
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| n.寄生虫；寄生菌；食客 | |
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29
riddling
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| adj.谜一样的，解谜的n.筛选 | |
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30
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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31
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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32
rosebud
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| n.蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女 | |
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33
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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34
coxcomb
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| n.花花公子 | |
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35
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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36
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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37
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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38
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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39
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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40
wreak
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| v.发泄；报复 | |
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41
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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42
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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43
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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44
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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45
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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46
immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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47
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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48
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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49
scroll
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| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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50
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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51
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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52
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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53
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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54
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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55
portrays
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| v.画像( portray的第三人称单数 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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56
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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57
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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58
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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59
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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60
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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61
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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62
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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63
dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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64
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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65
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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66
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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67
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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68
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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69
permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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70
metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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71
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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72
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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73
comeliness
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| n. 清秀, 美丽, 合宜 | |
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74
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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75
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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76
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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77
bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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78
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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79
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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80
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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81
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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82
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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83
effacing
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| 谦逊的 | |
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84
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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85
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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86
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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87
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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88
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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89
bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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90
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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91
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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92
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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93
ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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94
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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95
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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96
corrodes
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| v.使腐蚀，侵蚀( corrode的第三人称单数 ) | |
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97
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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98
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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99
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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100
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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101
intriguer
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| 密谋者 | |
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102
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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103
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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104
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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105
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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106
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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107
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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108
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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109
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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110
humiliate
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| v.使羞辱，使丢脸[同]disgrace | |
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111
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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112
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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113
immured
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| v.禁闭，监禁( immure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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115
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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116
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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117
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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118
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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119
ebbed
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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120
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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121
landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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122
rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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123
rends
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| v.撕碎( rend的第三人称单数 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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124
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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125
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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126
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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127
retailing
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| n.零售业v.零售(retail的现在分词) | |
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128
grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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129
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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130
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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131
recollected
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|
| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
microscopically
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| 显微镜下 | |
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133
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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134
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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135
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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136
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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137
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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138
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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139
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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140
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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141
rehabilitated
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| 改造（罪犯等）( rehabilitate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使恢复正常生活； 使恢复原状； 修复 | |
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142
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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143
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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144
pettishly
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145
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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146
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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147
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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148
scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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149
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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150
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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151
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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152
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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153
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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154
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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155
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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156
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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157
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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158
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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