For Maud Wrexham was to him a new type of womanhood, common enough in England, but a type which does not foregather with young artists in Paris; and Manvers was beginning to think of the Paris days with a sort of disgusted wonder. To be received into the society of a well-bred English girl, to see her day after day, to be admitted by her into a frank, boyish sort of intimacy1, was a proceeding2 he would have looked upon, a month or two ago, as a very doubtful privilege. He thought of our English marriageable maidenhood3 as a kind of incarnation of lawn tennis and district visiting, with a background of leaden domesticity, and when Maud began, somehow, to usurp4 an unreasonably5 large share of his spare thoughts, he was at first a little amused at himself, and, after a time, pulled up short and began to review the position.{122}
He had seen almost at once who it was who usurped7 her thoughts, though he felt sure that a casual observer, one whose own mind was fancy free, would not have noticed it. She was intensely conscious of Tom’s presence, and to Manvers she betrayed herself by a hundred tiny signs. When they were alone, she, as was most natural, for they were a trio of friends, often talked of Tom, and when he was there she evidently listened to all he said, and was intensely conscious of him, though she might be talking to some one else. As a rule, she behaved quite naturally; but once or twice she had exhibited towards him a studied unconsciousness, which to Manvers was a shade more convincing than her consciousness. He had a weakness for weaknesses, and the dramatic side of it all, her self-betrayal to him and Tom’s unconsciousness, would have given him a good deal of satisfaction, had he known that he was without a stake in the matter. But as the days went on, he became aware that it mattered a good deal to him, and the satisfaction he got out of the drama was a very poor wage for his own share in it.
Besides, he distinctly did not wish to fall in love. “Love may or may not blind,” he said to himself, “but it plays the deuce with your eye, if you are a sculptor8.” And so, by way of keeping his eye single, he set to work, with patient eagerness, on La dame9 qui s’amuse. The title itself brought a savour with it of Paris days, and Paris days could hardly help being antidotal10 to the feelings with which Maud Wrexham inspired him.
There was yet one more factor which made him{123} plunge11 into his work, and that was the thought of Tom. Tom just now was sublimely12 unconscious of anything so sublunary as falling in love with mortals, for he had lost his heart to antique goddesses, who again presented a fine contrast to Miss Wrexham. Manvers, as a rule, left morals to moralists, among whose numbers he had never enlisted13 himself; but a certain idea of loyalty14, of letting Tom have fair play when he came to take his innings, made him avoid the idea of setting up personal relations with Miss Wrexham. Whether he would have taken the chivalrous15 line, if any one but Tom had been concerned, is doubtful, but Tom somehow exacted loyalty. His extraordinary boyishness made Manvers feel that it would be an act of unpardonable meanness to take any advantage of him. Besides, in a sense, the fortress16 to which he himself would have liked to lay siege was, he felt sure, ready to capitulate to another, but it struck him that it was likely to repel17 an attack from any other quarter but that with much vigour18. To sit still and do nothing was more than flesh and blood could stand; it was hard enough to work, and the only thing to do was to work hard.
Tom’s tendencies towards idealism were, as Wallingthorpe had suspected, encouraged rather than discouraged by Manvers. “If that,” he thought and often said, “is realism, God forbid that I should be a realist.”
He said this to himself very emphatically one morning when he came to see Manvers after breakfast. The latter was already at work, and Tom{124} gazed at “La dame” for some moments without speaking. Manvers’ handling of the subject was masterly, and the result appeared to Tom quite detestable.
“I quite appreciate how clever it is,” Tom said to Manvers, who was testing his powers of “doing” lace in terra-cotta with great success, “and I wonder that you don’t appreciate how abominable21 it is.”
Manvers was at a somewhat ticklish22 point, and he did not answer, but only smiled. Nature had supplied him with a rather Mephistophelean cast of features, and he had aided her design by the cultivation23 of a small pointed24 beard. At this moment Tom could fancy that he was some incarnation of that abstraction, dissecting25 a newly damned soul with eagerness and delicacy26, in the search for some unusual depravity. After a moment he laid the tool down.
“I appreciate it fully27 from a spiritual, or moral, or Greek, or purist point of view, he said. But I am not in the habit of taking those points of view, and in consequence I am—well, rather pleased with it.”
“I think it’s a desecration,” said Tom. “Why you are not struck with lightning when you call it art, seems to me inexplicable28!”
Manvers laughed outright29.
“My dear Tom, I never called it art—I never even called it Art with a big A. That is not the way to get on. You must leave other people to do that. If you were an art critic, which I hope, for my sake, you some time may be, you would be immensely useful to me. One has only got to get an Art critic (with a big A) to stand by one’s work,{125} and pay him so much to shout out, ‘This is the Abomination,’ and one’s fortune is made. I am thinking of paying some one a handsome salary to blackguard me in the Press. Criticism, as the critic understands it, would soon cease, you see, if every one agreed, and so the fact that one critic says it is abomination, implies necessarily that another critic will come and stand on the other side and bawl30 out, ‘This is Sublime’ (with a big S). Artists and critics are under a great debt to one another. Critics get as much as sixpence a line, I believe, for what they say about artists, and artists would never get a penny if it wasn’t for critics, whereas, at present, some of us get very considerable sums. What was I saying? Oh yes, one critic damns you and the other critic blesses you. Then, you see, every one runs up to find out what the noise is, and they all begin quarrelling about it. And the pools are filled with water,” he concluded piously31.
Tom did not answer, and Manvers went on with slow precision, giving each word its full value.
“Of course it is chiefly due to the capital letters. Whether the criticism is favourable32 or not matters nothing as long as it is emphatic19. In this delightful33 age of sky signs, the critics must be large and flaring34 to attract any notice. Therefore they shout and use capital letters. They write on the full organ with all the stops out, except the Vox Angelica. And the artist blesses them. Like Balaam, their curses are turned into blessings35 for him, so he blesses them back. A most Christian36 proceeding.”
“But, honestly,” asked Tom, “does the contemplation{126} of that give you any artistic37 pleasure? Do you try to do for your age what Phidias and Praxiteles did for theirs?”
“Certainly I do. I try to represent to people what their age is. I have no doubt that ancient Greeks were excessively nude38 and statuesque. We are not statuesque or nude. Apollo pursuing Daphne through the Vale of Tempe, through thickets39 where the nightingales sing! What does Apollo do now? He arranges to meet Daphne at Aix-les-Bains, where they have mud-baths, and drink rotten-egg water. She wears an accordion-pleated skirt, and he a check suit. In their more rural moments they sit in the hotel-garden. It really seems to me that this little Abomination here is fairly up to date.”
“Oh, it’s up to date enough!” said Tom. “But is that the best of what is characteristic of our age?”
“That doesn’t concern me,” said Manvers blandly40; “worst will do as well. What I want is anything unmistakably up to date. Your gods and goddesses, of course, are more beautiful from an ideal point of view. By the way, that reminds me, I want to look at some of those early figures; the drapery is very suggestive. I am going to do a statuette of a nun41 who has once been—well, not a nun, and I want archaic42 folds; but if I produced them now, they would be nothing more than uninteresting survivals. And to produce an uninteresting survival seems to me a most deplorable waste of time.”
“Why don’t you make a statuette of a sewing-machine?” asked Tom savagely43.
“Oh, do you think sewing-machines are really{127} characteristic of the age?” said Manvers. “I don’t personally think they are, any more than Homocea is. Sewing-machines are only skin-deep. I wonder when you will be converted again—become an apostate44, as you would say now. You really had great talent. Those statuettes of yours at the Ashdon Gallery are attracting a great deal of attention.”
“I wish I had thrown them into the fire before I sent them there!”
“Well, when you come round again, you will be glad you didn’t,” said Manvers consolingly.
Tom took a turn or two up and down the room.
“You don’t understand me a bit,” he said suddenly. “Because I think that the Parthenon frieze46 is more beautiful than women with high-heeled shoes, you think I’m an idealist. I am a realist, just as much as you are, only I want to produce what I think is most beautiful. A beautiful woman has much in common with Greek art—and you want to produce what men, who are brutes47, will say is most lifelike. You work for brutes, or what I call brutes, and I don’t.”
“But if I have come to the conclusion that what you call brutish appeals to more men than what you call beautiful, surely I am right to work for them? Of course most artists say they work for the few, but I, like them, confess that I wish the few to be as numerous as possible.”
“The greatest evil for the greatest number, I suppose you mean,” burst in Tom. “I call it pandering49 to vicious tastes.”
Manvers paused, then laid down the tool he was working with.{128}
“You are overstepping the bounds of courtesy,” he said quietly. “You assume that my nature is vicious. That you have no right to do.”
Tom frowned despairingly.
“I know. It is quite true. I hate the men who always tell you that they say what they think, but I am one of them.”
Manvers laughed.
“I don’t mind your thinking me vicious,” he said. “I dare say I am vicious from your point of view, but you shouldn’t tell me so. It savours of Billingsgate, and it is quite clear without your telling me of it. You insult my intelligence when you say so.”
“In that I am sorry,” said Tom. “I never meant to do that. I wish you would leave your—well, your Muse6 alone, and come out.”
Manvers looked out of the window.
“I suppose I shall have to come,” he said. “But you are so violent, you never will consent to take carriage exercise. Luckily you can’t ask me to play outdoor games here, as there are no outdoor games to play. Dominoes is the only outdoor game I can play—I have done so outside French cafés. I’m afraid I can’t say it’s too cold.”
“I should insult your morality if you did,” said Tom.
“Well, that’s not so bad as insulting my intelligence.”
“And that is exactly where we differ,” said the other.
Arthur Wrexham was giving a small party the next evening, of a very recherché order, the dinner being served frothily in paper frills, shells, or on silver{129} skewers50, and the candles shaded in so cunning a manner that it was barely possible to see what the food was. He lived in a somewhat sumptuous51 set of rooms on the upper square of the town, and for a week or more, as the sirocco had been blowing, had been in a state of apparently52 irretrievable collapse53.
A little balcony opening out of his dining-room overlooked the square, and as the night was very hot, the glass-door on to it was left open, and the noises of the town came up to the guests as they sat at dinner, like a low accompaniment to their own voices. It had been one of those days when the divine climate of Athens gives way to all the moods of an angry woman. The morning had dawned bright and hot, but before ten o’clock sirocco had sprung up, and whoso walks in the face of sirocco is bathed through and through in a fine white dust, most gritty. The sirocco had brought the clouds from seawards, and about one o’clock the rain came down, and laid the dust. Then the sun shone violently till nearly five, and the air was like to a sticky warm bath. Later on it had clouded over again, and Tom remarked in a pause in the conversation that it had begun to lighten.
It was quite a small party, the two younger sisters of the American chargé d’affaires balancing Tom and Manvers, Arthur and his sister making up the six. The two Miss Vanderbilts both talked as much as possible, sighed for “Parrus,” and referred to the Acropolis as “those lonely old ruins,” but agreed that Athens was “cunning.”
“Well, I’m right down afraid of an electric storm,{130}” remarked Miss Vanderbilt, to whom Tom’s remark about the lightning had been addressed, “and as for Bee, she won’t be comfortable until she’s said her prayers and is safe in the coal-store.”
“The doctor at Parrus told me I’d a nervous temperament,” remarked Bee, “and we all knew that before, but he made Popper pay up for saying so.”
“‘Speech is silver,’” remarked Manvers.
“Well, his speech was gold,” said Miss Vanderbilt.
“Don’t you dread54 electric storms, Miss Wrexham?”
Maud was sitting at the head of the table fanning herself. She had borne up against sirocco, but the sticky bath stage had finished her, and she felt, as Bee would have expressed it, as if they’d omitted to starch55 her when she was sent from the wash.
“No, I love them,” said Maud. “I wish it would begin at once. It may make the air less stifling56.”
“Well, I’d sooner be stifled57 than lightning-struck,” said Bee, “it’s so sudden. Popper”—she referred to her father—“Popper says that an average electric storm discharges enough electric fluid to light Chicago for ten days. I think the table is just too elegant, Mr. Wrexham: where do you get your flowers from?”
Things improved a little as dinner went on, and after fish Maud felt better.
“What a dreadful materialist58 one is, after all,” she said. “Before dinner I was feeling that life was a failure in general, and I was a failure in particular, and now that I’ve had some soup and fish and half a glass of champagne59, not only do I feel better bodily, but mentally and morally.”
“Why, I think that’s just beautifully put,” said{131} Miss Vanderbilt. “When I feel homesick and lonesome, Bee says, ‘It’s all stomach.’”
“It’s quite true,” said Manvers. “I’ve only felt homesick once this year, and that was when Tom and I went to ?gina. It was fearfully hot, and all the lunch they had given us was hard-boiled eggs and cold greasy60 mutton. At that moment my whole soul, like Ruth’s, was ‘sick for home,’ and the little cafés with oleanders in tubs, and awnings61. I say my soul, but I suspect it was what Miss Vanderbilt tells us.”
“Have I said anything wrong?” asked Miss Vanderbilt, looking round inquiringly. “I was only telling you what Bee said.”
Tom laughed.
“It’s easy enough to assure one’s self that one is only an animal,” he said. “I wish any one would prove to us that we are something more. When Manvers says his soul was sick, he is quite right to correct himself, and suspect that he meant the other thing.”
“My dear fellow, the soul epidemic62 has ceased,” said Manvers, “though I believe certain cliques63 try to keep it up. When you have looked at one of your gods or goddesses for an hour, you think you have been enjoying it with your soul, but you haven’t really. At the end of the hour you feel tired, and after eating a mutton chop you can look at it again. The mutton chop feeds that part of you which has been spending tissue on the gods and goddesses. Well, we know what the mutton chop feeds.”
“I won’t assure you that you have a soul,” said Tom, “but I assure you that I have.{132}”
“It’s a most comfortable belief,” murmured Manvers. “I don’t grudge64 it you—I envy you. I wish you would do the same for me.”
The storm was getting closer, and every now and then the pillars on the balcony were thrown into vivid blackness against the violet background of the sky. The balcony was deep and covered with the projecting eaves of the third story, and after dinner they all sat out on it. The air was absolutely still, and apparently all the population of Athens were in the square, making the most of the evening air before the storm broke.
Tom was sitting on the balustrade of the balcony, and Maud in a low chair near him. She leant forward suddenly.
“Do you remember hearing the hum of London one night, and saying it was the finest thing in the world?”
“Yes, very well. It was at the Ramsdens’ dance. I shall hear it again soon.”
“Ah, you are going almost immediately, I suppose, now?”
As she spoke65, the sky to the south became for a moment a sheet of blue fire, with an angry scribble66 running through the middle of it, and Miss Vanderbilt ejaculated in shrill67 dismay.
Tom turned as Maud spoke, and the lightning illuminated68 her face vividly69.
The glimpse he had of her was absolutely momentary70, for just so long as that dazzling streamer flickered71 across the sky. But in the darkness and pause that followed he still saw her face before him, phantom72-like, as when we shut our eyes suddenly in{133} a strong light we still preserve on the retina the image of what we were looking at.
The phantom face slid slowly into the surrounding darkness, but it was not till the answering peal48 had burst with a sound as of hundreds of marbles being poured on to a wooden floor overhead that Tom answered the question which her voice had translated, but her eyes had asked.
“Well, I hardly know,” he said. “When are you thinking of going home?”
In that moment, when the thunder was crackling overhead, a flood of shame and anger had come over Maud. Of her voice she had perfect command, as she knew, but that the lightning should have come at that moment and showed Tom her face was not calculable. But the absolute normalness of his tone reassured73 her.
“I shall go back in about a fortnight,” she said.
“Why, that’s just about when I am going,” he said cheerfully. “I hope we shall travel together.”
And with the unhesitatingness of well-bred delicacy he got off the balustrade and began to talk to Miss Vanderbilt.
Tom was far too much of a gentleman to let his mind consciously dwell on what he had seen during that flash of lightning. He regarded it like a remark accidentally overheard, of which he had no right to profit. In this case the wish was also absent, for though he liked Maud Wrexham immensely, he was already in the first stage of his love of idealism, which at present allowed no divided allegiance. Had Maud been an idealist herself, she{134} might have appeared to him merely as the incarnation of the spirit of idealism, in which case he would have fallen down and worshipped. Tom had experienced a great shock the day before, when she had expressed admiration75 for Manvers’ Dame qui s’amuse.
They were on the Acropolis together when Tom mentioned it, and asked if she had seen it.
“Yes, he showed it me this morning. I think it’s extraordinarily76 good.”
“But you don’t like it?” asked Tom.
“Is it so terrible if I do? I don’t like it as I like this”—and she looked round largely at the Propyl?a—“but it gives me great pleasure to look at it. It’s so fearfully clever.”
“No man can serve two masters,” he said. “If you like this, as you tell me you do, you loathe77 the other necessarily.”
“Oh, but you’re just a little too fond of dogmatising,” said Maud. “What you lay down as a necessity may be only a limitation in your own nature. How do you know I can’t appreciate both? As a matter of fact I do.”
“Well, if you admire La dame you can’t possibly think of this—this which we see here—as supreme78 and triumphant,” said Tom.
“I’m not sure that I do. I think perhaps that I have a touch of the scepticism you had—oh, ever so long ago; six weeks, isn’t it?—when you expected to find that the grand style was obsolete79. How we shall quarrel when we manage the world, as we said we proposed to do.{135}”
“It’s quite certain that we shall never manage together, if there is this difference between us. I shall be wanting to celebrate Olympic games while you are laying out boulevards.”
“Well, there’s room for both,” said Maud.
“No, no,” said Tom, “there is never enough room for the best, far less for the worst.”
“You are so splendidly illogical, Mr. Carlingford,” she said suddenly; “you see, you assume one is the best, and one the worst, and then build upon it. It is all very well to do that for one’s self, but one becomes unconvincing if one does it for other people.”
“It was better than if I had said at once that we differed fundamentally.”
Maud turned away.
“Yes, perhaps. But what is the use of saying unpleasant things at all?”
“Unpleasant?” asked Tom, wrinkling his forehead. “Why, I differ from all my best friends diametrically on every conceivable topic.”
That classification of her with his best friends was exactly the attitude of his nature towards her, and what he saw during that flash of lightning was naturally extremely surprising, for, as he reflected to himself, despair should not look from one’s eyes when one hears that one’s best friends are going away. But, as he was bound in honour to do, he dismissed it as far as possible from his mind, and listened to Miss Vanderbilt’s scientific discourse80 about lightning.
“I should really feel much more comfortable if you would turn that big reflector round,” she was saying{136} to Arthur Wrexham. “They say it attracts the thunderbolts, and I’m sure we don’t want to lay ourselves out to attract thunderbolts.”
Arthur Wrexham remonstrated81 gently.
“Oh, it really has no effect whatever on it,” he said. “In fact, glass is an insulator82.”
This entirely83 vague statement was found to be consoling, and Miss Vanderbilt continued—
“I should be ashamed to be as silly as Bee about it,” she said. “Bee took off all her rings the last electric storm we had, and of course she couldn’t recollect84 where she put them, and you should have seen the colour of her frock when she came out of the coal-store. Oh, gracious! why, that flash went off quite by my hand here.”
Manvers was looking meditatively85 out into the night.
“The chances of being struck are so infinitesimal, Miss Vanderbilt, that I think it must have had a shot at you that time and missed. So by the law of probabilities it will not even aim at you again for a year or two. It really is a great consolation86 to know that one wouldn’t hear the thunder if one was struck.”
“Why, if you could hear the thunder, it would be all over,” said Miss Bee, with a brilliant inspiration.
“So after each flash we must wait anxiously for the thunder,” said Tom, “and then we shall know we’ve not been struck.”
“I guess there’s no great difficulty in finding out if you’ve been struck,” said Bee. “Popper saw a man struck once, and he went all yellow. Tell me if{137} I am going all yellow, Mr. Manvers. I shan’t try to conceal87 it.”
“No amount of dissimulation88 would conceal the fact that one had gone all yellow,” said Manvers.
The worst of the storm was soon over, but the clouds took possession of Hymettus, and continued growling89 and rumbling90 there. The two Americans took advantage of the lull91 to make their way home. “For nothing,” Miss Vanderbilt protested, with shrill vehemence92, “will make me get into a buggy during an electric storm;” and Tom and Manvers followed their example, and walked back to their hotel.
Manvers had seen that look on Miss Wrexham’s face at the moment of the flash of lightning, and he determined93, wisely or unwisely, to mention it to Tom.
They were the only occupants of the smoking-room, and after getting his cigar under way, he asked the other lazily—
“By the way, what were you saying to Miss Wrexham that made her look like an image of despair? I caught sight of her face for a moment during a flash of lightning, and it looked extraordinary.”
“Yes, I noticed it too,” said Tom carelessly, “and wondered what was the matter. She had been rather upset by sirocco, she said.”
“My dear fellow, girls don’t look like petrified94 masks of despair because sirocco has been blowing for a couple of hours in the morning.”
“Well, I suppose it must have been something else then,” said Tom.{138}
“What a brilliant solution! I am inclined to agree with you.”
Manvers remained silent for a few moments, balancing in his mind his disinclination to appear officious or meddling95, and his desire to perhaps do Tom a service. As a matter of fact he had heard the question which had accompanied that look on Miss Wrexham’s face, and it had confirmed the idea he had long entertained that she was falling in love with Tom, and Tom was not consciously in love with her. His tone of absolute indifference96 to the subject might be either assumed or natural.
“You see a good deal of her, don’t you?” he went on. “She’s clever, I think, and she’s certainly got a good eye. She made several suggestions about my little figure which were admirable.”
“She told me she admired it,” said Tom, “and I told her she couldn’t admire it if she admired Greek work.”
“She wouldn’t agree with that. She thinks that she can appreciate both. It must be so nice to have that belief in yourself, to think that you are all sorts of people, instead of one sort of person. But it breaks down in practice——”
Manvers paused a moment, and decided97 to risk it.
“That look on her face this evening was of a woman who had broken down. I have often wondered, by the way, whether you ever have guessed how fortunate you are.”
Tom sat up.
“Did you hear what she said?” he asked.
“Certainly, or I shouldn’t have mentioned it.{139}”
“Look here,” Tom said, “it was quite accidental that either of us ever saw that look. She couldn’t have foreseen that a flash of lightning would come at that moment. I have tried to keep myself from thinking of it, but it won’t do. I hate conceited98 fools who are always imagining things of that sort, but as you have spoken of it, it is absurd for me to pretend not to know what you mean. Damn it all! She looked—she looked as if my going away made a difference to her.”
Manvers drew a puff99 of smoke very slowly, and held his breath a moment. Then he began to speak, and it seemed to Tom slightly appropriate that his words should be, as it were, visible. They seemed a concrete embodiment of practical advice.
“I think she is very fond of you,” he said.
“What am I to do?” demanded Tom.
“Do?” he said. “I really don’t understand you. If you are in love with her, I imagine your course is not so difficult; if not, you may be sure you soon will be.”
“I should think it was the most unlikely thing in the world,” returned Tom. “If I had thought that, it is hardly likely I should have asked you what to do.”
“Pardon me, you never asked me, except under pressure. I made it quite clear that I wanted to be asked; you did not wish to ask me at all. I have my opinion to deliver. Listen. You are very fond of her, whether you know it or not. Just now you are stark100 mad about heathen gods. You say to yourself, or you would say to yourself if you formulated{140} your thought, that you could only fall in love with a girl in the grand style. That is quite ridiculous. They may or may not be very good as statues, but they would certainly not answer as wives. In the natural course of things you will get over that. Try to do so as quickly as possible. Look at Miss Wrexham instead of the Parthenon. You can’t marry the Parthenon. That flash of lightning occurring when it did gave me a stronger belief in the existence of a beneficent Providence101 than I have ever felt before. It is only a superstitious102 idea, I know, but when a chance falls so divinely pat as that, you feel inclined to applaud somebody.”
Tom did not look at all inspired by these practical suggestions.
“It won’t do,” he said. “You take an admirably sensible view of the situation, if it happened to be you, but unfortunately it’s I.”
“I may be a knave103,” said Manvers resignedly, “but, thank God, I am not a fool. I don’t suppose you will deny that you are a fool, Tom; and you really should give my advice a great deal of consideration. It is not every day that a flash of lightning shows you how high an opinion a perfectly104 charming heiress has of you, and it is, I think, both folly105 and wickedness not to suppose that it was sent you for some good or clever purpose. You really can’t help feeling that it was a very clever thing to send the lightning just then. You must have a special Providence who looks after you.”
“I hope you don’t think you will convince me,” said Tom.{141}
“Oh dear, no, but I had to ease my—my conscience by entering a strong protest. I feel better now, thanks.”
“That’s right. But to descend106 to practical details, won’t the fact that she suspects I saw what I did make it rather awkward for us to meet?”
“Are you sure she suspects it?”
“No, not sure, or I should go away at once. I may be a fool, but I am not a knave.”
Manvers extended his hand in the air deprecatingly.
“Oh, don’t make repartees during a thunderstorm. They so seldom mean anything, in fact the better a repartee107 is, the less it means; and they give a nervous shock to the reparteee—if I may coin a word. Also he is bound in mere74 politeness to cudgel his brains to see if they do mean something. When you have an opportunity you must say she looked so awfully108 tired last night, and that you noticed her face once in a blaze of lightning, and you were quite frightened; she looked so out of sorts, or done up, or run down, or something. It’s very simple. But is there no chance——”
“No, not a vestige,” said Tom. “Besides, I don’t believe that you really advise what you say.”
“Tom, you’ve never heard me give advice before, and you must attach the proper weight to it as a rare product.”
“Why, you are always giving me advice about turning realist.”
“No, you’re wrong there; I only prophesy109 that you will. That I often prophesy, I don’t deny. There{142} is nothing so amusing to one’s self, or so unconvincing to other people. It is the most innocent of amusements. Besides, you can always compare yourself to Cassandra—she was classical—when people don’t believe you.”
“Yes, that must be a great comfort,” said Tom slowly, who was thinking about Miss Wrexham.
Manvers got up.
“You are falling into a reverie. You ought to know that reveries are an unpardonable breach110 of manners. I shall go to my statuette. That is the best of being up to date in your art; you never need be without companions.”
“Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,” quoted Tom, half mock-heroically.
“My dear boy, it won’t do,” said Manvers. “She won’t come down for that. You have to fetch her down, and she is very like the rest of us really. She soon assimilates. Besides, luckily, maids on mountain heights are rare. They find it doesn’t pay.”
Tom left the room, and Manvers went to the window. The rain had come on again, and was falling hot and heavy through the night. Manvers dropped a steadfast111 oath into the storm, and then, instead of going to his statuette, went to bed, and lay awake till the darkness grew grey.
“The world is damnably awry,” was the burden of his thoughts. “I suppose it is to teach us not to set our affections on things below. They might have chosen a less diabolical112 method of teaching us, Providence is really very vulgar sometimes.{143}”
Maud woke next morning in the rationalizing mood, and the event of the thunderstorm, which had made her disposed to be uneasy the night before, fell back into its proper place in the scheme of things. The absence of the sirocco no doubt contributed to this calmer attitude, for, as a philosopher found out very long ago, it is possible to reach the soul through the subtle gateways113 of the body, and a thin light Athenian north wind is one of the subtlest physicians of the mind, and can find out the most tortuous114 and intricate passages through the house of our body. This acting45 on a naturally rational mind had produced its legitimate115 effect. Probably Tom had not noticed it; in any case, if he had, there were much less metaphysical reasons which would lend themselves to a much more obvious inference. She was tired, the lightning had dazzled her, Miss Vanderbilt was on her nerves; all these things were so likely, and the real reason so unlikely. Consequently, when she left the house after breakfast, to go up to the Acropolis and finish a sketch116, with the almost certain probability of seeing Tom there, she felt that their intercourse117 would be as easy as usual.
The view she had chosen was of the little Niké temple seen through two headless columns of the Propyl?a, with a glimpse behind of the sea and the hills of Argolis, and she painted on for half an hour or so without thinking of anything but what she was doing. But by degrees her glances at the far hills became longer, and the acts of painting shorter, her eyes saw less and less of what she was looking at, though they rested more intently on the scene, and at{144} last she put down her palette and leant against the white marble wall behind her.
What was the matter with her? Why had she this unfathomable feeling for a man who was perhaps less unfathomable than any one she had ever seen? A frank English face, a keen boyish vitality119, an almost comical self-sufficiency, demanding as its only food the contemplation of Greek sculpture—it all seemed fathomable118 enough. She half wished he would go back to England at once, yet even with that view in front of her, for the sake of which she nominally120 climbed up to the Acropolis, she felt that another factor was wanting, a nought121, she told herself, which had the inexplicable trick of turning her units into tens. In any case she would go back to England not with him, but by herself. He was spoiling everything for her. Then came the reaction. “How ridiculous it will be! I asked him when he was going back, and hoped we might go together, and now I am deciding not to go with him. He is a most pleasant companion, and what is he to me”—the next thought came like an echo—“or I to him?”
Her thoughts had taken the bits in their mouths, and were running away, and so, metaphorically122 speaking, she jumped off the runaway123 vehicle and came into serious collision with terra firma; literally124, she took up her palette and went on with her painting.
To Tom, also, his visits to the Acropolis distinctly gained something by the constant expectation of meeting Maud there. She had run him to ground the other day when she had made him confess that he cared for nothing but his art, and though the{145} conclusion had been forced from his mouth, he knew it was not quite true. What he cared for was life and its best possibilities in the way of beauty, and his enthusiasm, he knew, saw and tended to state everything too violently. He found Maud sympathetic, eager and charming as a companion, and no other thought had entered his head about her, until the incident of the thunderstorm, which had been unexpected and very bewildering. And in his deep perplexity as to what he had better do, he took the eminently125 straightforward126 and most promising127 course of doing nothing at all, of behaving normally. He had, as it were, taken a tentative mental sounding of his feelings towards her for his own satisfaction, but he found that the bottom was soon reached. In any case the depths were not unplumbable, which would have been the only reason for doing anything. He was in love with life, with all of life that was best, and the idea of falling in love with any particular little bit of it would have seemed to him as incredible as writing sonnets128, in the style of the eighteenth-century poets, to women’s finger-nails; and these always appeared to him most profitless performances. To fall in love must always seem slightly ridiculous until one falls in love.
Then it came about that not long after Maud had begun painting again, Tom walked up the steps as usual, and sat with his hands clasped round one knee, on the steps at Maud’s feet, and talked as usual, and absorbed the beauty of the scene.
“It’s the only way,” he said on this particular morning, “to hope to get hold, of the spirit of Greek{146} art. You can never arrive at the spirit of a thing through its details—the details shape themselves if you know the spirit. You see artists in the Louvre copying Raphael all their lives, but they never really remind you of him. If they were to go to Umbrian villages and live the life he lived among the people, and to feast—I don’t mean literally—on the ox-eyed faces of peasant women and then come back, they might be able to copy him with some success, or still better, if they had genius, produce original pictures which were like Raphael’s. They go the wrong way about it.”
Maud was painting intently, and did not answer for a moment.
“Yes, I think you are right,” she said. “It’s no use copying merely. A mere copy only, at its best approximates to a coloured photograph.”
“It’s so utterly129 the wrong way to go about it,” said Tom. “To arrive at the right results, you have to follow the right method from the beginning. For instance, when I go back to England, and am shut up in a dingy130 studio under a grey sky, and my work looks hideous131 and dead, I shall bring back the inspiration not by thinking only of Hermes, but of the time I have spent here on these steps, looking out over the Propyl?a to Salamis.”
He leant back on the step where he was sitting, and looked up at Maud for a moment. She put down the brush she held and was looking at him, as if she was waiting eagerly to hear something more. But Tom apparently was unconscious of her look, and she took up her brush again.{147}
Tom tilted132 his hat a little more over his eyes, and took out his cigarette-case.
“It’s becoming real to me at last,” he said. “I think I am beginning to know what it all means.”
“You’ll have to show us,” said Maud. “A man who is a sculptor, and who knows what this means, is certainly bound to produce statues which are really like Greek statues.”
Tom sat up.
“I don’t care how conceited it sounds,” he said excitedly, “but I am going to try to do no less. It is astonishing how little I care what happens. That is my aim, and if I don’t realize it, it will be the fault of something I can’t control.”
“But what is there which a man who is earnest cannot control?” she asked.
“There is only one question in the world which is even harder to answer,” said Tom, “and that is, what is there in the world which he can control? What is to happen to me if some morning I wake up to find that I think Manvers’ statuettes ideal, and Greek art passé? How do I know it will not happen to me? Who will assure me of it?”
“Oh well, how do you know that you won’t wake up some morning, and find that your nose has disappeared during the night, and a hand grown in its place?” asked Maud. “The one is as unnatural133 to your mind as the other is to the body.”
“But all sorts of unnatural things happen to your mind,” said Tom. “That I should have suddenly felt that nothing but Greek art was worth anything{148} was just as unnatural. It is just as unnatural that, at a given moment, a man falls in love——”
He stopped quite suddenly and involuntarily, but Maud’s voice broke in.
“Not at all,” she said. “You see, it happens to most men; it is the rule rather than the exception, whereas the disappearance134 of one’s nose would be unique, I should think.”
Her voice was so perfectly natural, so absolutely unaffected, that Tom made a short mental note, to the effect that Manvers was the greatest idiot in the world except one, which was a more consoling thought than he would have imagined possible. His determination to be quite normal had become entirely superfluous—a billetless bullet.
“Yes, but because it happens constantly, it makes it none the less extraordinary,” he said.
“Certainly not; but you can no longer call it unnatural.”
“I call everything unnatural that seems to me unintelligible,” remarked Tom, with crisp assurance.
Maud began to laugh.
“What a great many unnatural things there must be,” she said, “according to your view. Why, the sun rising in the morning is unnatural. But it would be much more unnatural if it did not.”
“If I go on, I shall soon begin to talk nonsense,” said Tom, concessively, “and that would be a pity.”
“Well, let’s get back on to safe ground,” said Maud. “Come and tell me what to do with that column. It isn’t right.{149}”
Tom picked up his stick, and shoved his hat back on his head.
“I don’t understand you,” he said, after looking at the picture for a moment. “I believe you know what the spirit of all this is—at least, your picture, which is admirable, looks as if you did—and yet you like Manvers’ statuettes. I think you are unnatural.”
“Do you remember a talk we had, when we were staying with you, about being broad?”
“Yes, perfectly. Why?”
“Because I think you are being narrow. I dare say this is the best, but that doesn’t prevent other things from being good.”
Maud bent135 over her painting again, because she wanted to say more, and it is always easier to criticize if one is not biassed136 by the sight of the person whom one is criticizing.
“You seem to think you can see all round a truth. If the truth is big enough to be worth anything, it is probable that you can only see a little bit of it.”
“Why—why——” began Tom.
“Yes, I know. I am thinking of what you yourself said the other day about religion, when you told me what passed between you and Mr. Markham after the revivalist meeting. I am quoting your own words. They seem to me very true!”
“But how is it possible in this instance?” said Tom, striking the marble pavement with his stick. “If one of the two is good, the other is bad. They are utterly opposed.”
Maud turned round on him suddenly.
“Ah, I thought you would say that,” she said. “It{150} would be as reasonable for you to say that because there is sunshine here now, there is sunshine all over the world. Yet in Australia it is about midnight. Light is utterly opposed to darkness. Yet this is one world. You don’t allow of there being more of it than you can see.”
Tom shifted his position.
“Go on,” he said. “I am not so limited that I do not wish to be told so.”
“You showed just the same smallness when you talked to me about Cambridge,” she said. “You thought that you were broad, because you thought that it was narrow. Did it never occur to you that you thought it was narrow simply because you were not broad enough to take it in? The one explanation is as simple as the other.”
“I’m quite convinced I’m broader than Markham,” said Tom, frankly137. “He thinks about nothing but snuffy old scholiasts.”
“And you think about nothing but Greek art; you have said so yourself. Is it quite certain that you are broader than he?”
Tom stood for a moment thinking.
“Do you think I’m narrow?” he asked at length.
“That is beside the point,” she said. “If I did not, it might only show that I was narrow in the same way as you.”
“No, that can’t be,” said Tom, plunging138 at the only opening he could see. “You must remember you like Manvers’ statuettes.”
“Well, from that standpoint I do think you narrow,{151}” she said. “It seems to me very odd that you shouldn’t see how good they are.”
“Do you mean how clever they are?”
“It is the same thing, as far as this question goes. You don’t recognize their cleverness even, since you dislike them so.”
Tom drew a sigh of relief.
“Oh well, then, you are wrong about it. I fully recognize how clever they are.”
“Then you don’t admire cleverness, which is a great deficiency.”
“On the contrary, I do admire cleverness; but Manvers’ seems to me perverted139 cleverness. I admire ingenuity140 as an abstract quality, though I don’t care for those diabolical little puzzles which every one used to play with last year.”
Maud shut up her paint-box, and rose.
“It’s no use arguing,” she said. “An argument never comes to anything if you disagree; no argument ever converted any one.”
“But I’m quite willing to be converted,” said Tom.
“Well, to tell you the truth, I’m not at all sure that I want to convert you. I like you better as you are. Who is it who speaks of the ‘genial141 impulses of love and hate’? Your hatred142 for Mr. Manvers’ things is so intensely genial, so natural to you.”
They walked down the steps together, and stood for a moment looking over the broad plain, with its fields of corn already sprouting143, stretching up towards the grey mass of Parnes.
“This place suits me,” said Maud. “I shall be sorry to go.{152}”
“Have you settled when you are going?” asked Tom.
“Not precisely144; why?”
“Because I shall come with you, if you will allow me: I must be going soon.”
Maud’s face flushed a little, and she turned towards him.
“That will be charming, I shall go in about ten days or a fortnight, as I said last night. You know, now and then, even here with all this winter sun, and the Acropolis there, I want a grey English sky and long green fields.”
“So do I; and cart-horses, and big green trees—even snow and frost, for the sake of the clean frosty smell on cold mornings. Here’s Manvers coming under a large white umbrella. I wonder what he wants to come to the Acropolis for.”
Manvers came up to them, and paused.
“I am taking a little walk,” he explained. “Mrs. Trachington has been paying me a little visit, or rather, I have been paying her a little visit.”
“Who is Mrs. Trachington?” asked Maud.
“Mrs. Trachington is a female staying at our hotel,” said Manvers, gently wiping his face. “She has praying-meetings. This morning I was walking past her room, when she came out and asked me to look at some picture she had just got. It was a charming landscape by Gialliná, of delicious tone. But after a moment I looked up and caught her eye. There was a prayer in it. It is wicked that a woman with blatant145 prayer in her eye should possess such a picture. So I ran away. I came up here for safety.{153}”
Tom laughed uproariously.
“Manvers is fanciful,” he said. “His is a morbidly146 sensitive nature.”
“My dear fellow, you would have done just the same,” he said. “I don’t think Mrs. Trachington’s methods are at all straightforward. They are Jesuitical. Besides, I can’t go praying about all over the hotel.”
“Well, you’d better come down with us,” said Tom.
Manvers looked at Maud a moment.
“No, I’m going to stop here a little. Of old sat Freedom on the heights. I shall be free here.”
“But she stepped down, you know,” said Tom.
“So shall I by-and-by,” said Manvers. “That was after she sat on the heights.”
Maud and Tom walked down past the theatre and into the low-lying streets to the east of the Acropolis. The fresh oranges had come in from the country, and they passed strings147 of heavily laden148 mules149 and donkeys, driven by dirty, picturesque150 boys, bare-footed, black-haired, and black-eyed. It was a festal day, and the women had turned out in bright Albanian costumes, and the streets were charged with southern colour, and brilliant with warm winter sun and cloudless sky. Through open spaces between the houses they could see the tawny151 columns of the Parthenon standing152 clear-cut and virgin153 against the blue; for the moment the earlier and later civilizations seemed harmonious154.
Tom and Manvers met later in the day, and Tom retailed155 his decision of the morning.{154}
“We were both utterly wrong,” he said. “It makes me grow hot all over to think of what we said last night. I acted just as a man of that class which I detest20 so much would act.”
“I drew the inferences demanded by common sense,” said Manvers, who was not convinced.
“By your common sense!” rejoined Tom. “You can’t talk of common sense as a constant quality; it varies according to the man who exercises it. There are certain occasions when one’s inferences are based on instinct, which is a much surer thing than common sense. One of these occasions occurred this morning.”
“Ah, but your instinct may be wrong, and nobody can convince you of it. It is a much more dangerous thing to trust to. If you base your action on reasons which can be talked out lengthways, you can make certain whether you are right or not.”
Tom rose with some irritation156.
“My dear fellow, I don’t believe you know what I mean by instincts,” he said, and strolled away.
Manvers found a certain delicate pleasure in this exhibition of human weakness on the part of Tom, and the reason by which he accounted for it in his own mind was clearly a very likely one. He argued that Tom was not quite so certain that he was right as he had hoped, and such a state of mind, Manvers allowed, was very galling157.
Meantime Maud had gone home, lunched with her brother, and announced that she was going home in about a fortnight in company with Tom. Arthur{155} Wrexham had a vague feeling that this was not quite proper, and indicated it.
“Is that the sort of thing people do now?” he asked. “I really only ask for information.”
“I don’t understand,” said Maud.
“I mean girls travelling alone with young men.”
Maud laughed.
“Don’t be anxious on my account,” she said. “I shall outrage158 no one’s sense of propriety159.”
Arthur felt he had done his share, and subsided160 again.
“Of course you know best,” he said. “I only suggested it in case it had not occurred to you. So Carlingford is going too, is he? I thought he meant to stop here longer?”
“No, he’s going to begin work at once. He says he has got hold of the spirit of the thing. He is so delightfully161 certain about everything.”
“A little dogmatic sometimes, isn’t he?” asked Arthur.
“No; dogmatists have always the touch of the prig about them. He has none of that.”
Arthur Wrexham put his feet upon a chair.
“I think he is just a little barbarous,” he said. “Doesn’t he ever make your head ache?”
“No, I can’t say that he does,” said Maud slowly. “I think he is one of the most thoroughly162 satisfactory people.”
“He is so like a sort of mental highwayman sometimes,” said her brother. “He makes such sudden inroads on one’s intelligence. He catechizes one{156} about the Propyl?a. That is so trying, especially if you know nothing about it.”
Maud laughed.
“Oh well, if your purse is empty, you need not fear highwaymen,” she said.
A fortnight afterwards they both left for Marseilles by the same boat. She sailed on Sunday morning, and Arthur Wrexham and Manvers came down to the Pir?us to see them off. Manvers and Tom took a few turns about the upper deck and talked, while Arthur sat down in Maud’s deck-chair and was steeped in gentle melancholy163.
“So in about a year’s time you will see me,” said the former. “I shall be in London next winter. At present I feel like an Old Testament164 prophet in his first enthusiasm of prophecy. I wonder if they ever had any doubts about the conclusiveness165 of their remarks. I at least have none. I won’t exactly name the day when you will become a convert, but I will give you about a year. Consequently, when you see me next, our intercourse may be less discordant166.”
“I hope it won’t,” remarked Tom; “and I don’t believe it will.”
“It’s always nice to disagree with people, I know,” said the other; “it adds a sauce to conversation. But I don’t mind abandoning that. You really will do some excellent work when you come round.”
“I am going to do an excellent Demeter mourning for Persephone,” said Tom.
Manvers lit another cigarette from the stump167 of his old one.{157}
“I did an Apollo, I remember,” he said. “I wish you would do an Apollo too. I have mine still; it serves as a sort of milestone168. It has finely developed hands and feet, just like all those Greek statues.”
“And you prefer neat shoes now,” said Tom.
“Why, yes. Whether Apollo has finely developed feet or not, he wears shoes or boots, the neater the better. I hate seeing a man with untidy boots. But even untidy boots are better than none at all. Ah, there’s that outrageous169 bell warning me to leave the boat. Good-bye, Tom. Athens will be very dull without you. I shall cultivate Mrs. Trachington.”
“Do, and make a statuette of her. She is a very modern development. Good-bye, old boy.”
It was a raw December day when their train slid into Victoria Station, and a cold thick London fog was drifting sluggishly170 in from the streets. Any desire that Maud may have felt for English grey was amply realized. The pavement under the long glass vault171 was moist with condensed vapour, and the air was cold in that piercing degree which is the peculiar172 attribute of an English thaw173. The Chathams were in London, and Lady Chatham had “worked in” the landau with such success that she just arrived at the platform when the train drew up. She was immensely friendly to Tom, and remarked how convenient it was that they had arranged to come together.
Tom said good-bye to them at their carriage door. Just as they drove off Maud leant out of the window.
“You’ve no idea how I have enjoyed the journey,” she said. “You are at Applethorpe, aren’t you? Come and see us soon. ”
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
intimacy
|
|
| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
proceeding
|
|
| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
maidenhood
|
|
| n. 处女性, 处女时代 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
4
usurp
|
|
| vt.篡夺，霸占；vi.篡位 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
unreasonably
|
|
| adv. 不合理地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
muse
|
|
| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
usurped
|
|
| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的过去式和过去分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
sculptor
|
|
| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
dame
|
|
| n.女士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
antidotal
|
|
| 解毒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
plunge
|
|
| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
sublimely
|
|
| 高尚地，卓越地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
enlisted
|
|
| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
loyalty
|
|
| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
chivalrous
|
|
| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
fortress
|
|
| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
repel
|
|
| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
vigour
|
|
| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
emphatic
|
|
| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
detest
|
|
| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
abominable
|
|
| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
ticklish
|
|
| adj.怕痒的；问题棘手的；adv.怕痒地；n.怕痒，小心处理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
cultivation
|
|
| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
pointed
|
|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
dissecting
|
|
| v.解剖（动物等）( dissect的现在分词 )；仔细分析或研究 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
delicacy
|
|
| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
fully
|
|
| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
inexplicable
|
|
| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
outright
|
|
| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
bawl
|
|
| v.大喊大叫，大声地喊，咆哮 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
piously
|
|
| adv.虔诚地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
favourable
|
|
| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
delightful
|
|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
flaring
|
|
| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
blessings
|
|
| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
Christian
|
|
| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
artistic
|
|
| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
nude
|
|
| adj.裸体的；n.裸体者，裸体艺术品 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
thickets
|
|
| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
blandly
|
|
| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
nun
|
|
| n.修女，尼姑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
archaic
|
|
| adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的，已不通用的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
savagely
|
|
| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
apostate
|
|
| n.背叛者，变节者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
acting
|
|
| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
frieze
|
|
| n.(墙上的)横饰带，雕带 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
brutes
|
|
| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
peal
|
|
| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
pandering
|
|
| v.迎合（他人的低级趣味或淫欲）( pander的现在分词 )；纵容某人；迁就某事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
skewers
|
|
| n.串肉扦( skewer的名词复数 )；烤肉扦；棒v.（用串肉扦或类似物）串起，刺穿( skewer的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
sumptuous
|
|
| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
collapse
|
|
| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
dread
|
|
| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
starch
|
|
| n.淀粉；vt.给...上浆 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
stifling
|
|
| a.令人窒息的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
stifled
|
|
| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
materialist
|
|
| n. 唯物主义者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
champagne
|
|
| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
greasy
|
|
| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
awnings
|
|
| 篷帐布 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
epidemic
|
|
| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
cliques
|
|
| n.小集团，小圈子，派系( clique的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
grudge
|
|
| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
scribble
|
|
| v.潦草地书写，乱写，滥写；n.潦草的写法，潦草写成的东西，杂文 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
shrill
|
|
| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
illuminated
|
|
| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
vividly
|
|
| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
momentary
|
|
| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
flickered
|
|
| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
phantom
|
|
| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
reassured
|
|
| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
admiration
|
|
| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
extraordinarily
|
|
| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
loathe
|
|
| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
supreme
|
|
| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
obsolete
|
|
| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
discourse
|
|
| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
remonstrated
|
|
| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
insulator
|
|
| n.隔离者；绝缘体 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
recollect
|
|
| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
meditatively
|
|
| adv.冥想地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
consolation
|
|
| n.安慰，慰问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
conceal
|
|
| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
dissimulation
|
|
| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
growling
|
|
| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
rumbling
|
|
| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
lull
|
|
| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
vehemence
|
|
| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
determined
|
|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
petrified
|
|
| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
meddling
|
|
| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
indifference
|
|
| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
conceited
|
|
| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
puff
|
|
| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
stark
|
|
| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
providence
|
|
| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
superstitious
|
|
| adj.迷信的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
knave
|
|
| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
folly
|
|
| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
descend
|
|
| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
repartee
|
|
| n.机敏的应答 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
awfully
|
|
| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
prophesy
|
|
| v.预言；预示 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
breach
|
|
| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
steadfast
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
diabolical
|
|
| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
gateways
|
|
| n.网关( gateway的名词复数 )；门径；方法；大门口 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
tortuous
|
|
| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
legitimate
|
|
| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
sketch
|
|
| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
intercourse
|
|
| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
fathomable
|
|
| 可测的，看得透的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
vitality
|
|
| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
nominally
|
|
| 在名义上，表面地； 应名儿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
nought
|
|
| n.／adj.无，零 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
metaphorically
|
|
| adv. 用比喻地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
runaway
|
|
| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
literally
|
|
| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
eminently
|
|
| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
straightforward
|
|
| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
promising
|
|
| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
sonnets
|
|
| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
dingy
|
|
| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
hideous
|
|
| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
tilted
|
|
| v. 倾斜的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
unnatural
|
|
| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
disappearance
|
|
| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
bent
|
|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
biassed
|
|
| （统计试验中）结果偏倚的，有偏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
137
frankly
|
|
| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
plunging
|
|
| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
perverted
|
|
| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
ingenuity
|
|
| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
141
genial
|
|
| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
142
hatred
|
|
| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
143
sprouting
|
|
| v.发芽( sprout的现在分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
144
precisely
|
|
| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
145
blatant
|
|
| adj.厚颜无耻的；显眼的；炫耀的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
146
morbidly
|
|
| adv.病态地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
147
strings
|
|
| n.弦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
148
laden
|
|
| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
149
mules
|
|
| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
150
picturesque
|
|
| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
151
tawny
|
|
| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
152
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
153
virgin
|
|
| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
154
harmonious
|
|
| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
155
retailed
|
|
| vt.零售（retail的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
156
irritation
|
|
| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
157
galling
|
|
| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
158
outrage
|
|
| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
159
propriety
|
|
| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
160
subsided
|
|
| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
161
delightfully
|
|
| 大喜，欣然 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
162
thoroughly
|
|
| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
163
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
164
testament
|
|
| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
165
conclusiveness
|
|
| n.最后； 释疑； 确定性； 结论性 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
166
discordant
|
|
| adj.不调和的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
167
stump
|
|
| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
168
milestone
|
|
| n.里程碑；划时代的事件 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
169
outrageous
|
|
| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
170
sluggishly
|
|
| adv.懒惰地；缓慢地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
171
vault
|
|
| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
172
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
173
thaw
|
|
| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |