"It's next door," Renard remarked, in the casual way peculiar3 to artists. "You are to have the whole house to yourselves, all but the top floor; the people who own it keep that to live in. There's a garden of the right sort, with espaliers, also rose trees, and a tea house; quite the right sort of thing altogether."
The unforeseen, in its way, is excellent and admirable. De l'imprévu, surely this is the dash of seasoning—the caviare we all crave4 in life's somewhat too monotonous5 repasts. But as men have been known to admire the still life in wifely character, and then repented6 their choice, marrying peace only to court dissension, so we, incontinently deserting our humble7 inn chambers9 to take possession of a grander state, in the end found the capital of experience drained to pay for our little infidelity.
[Illustration: A DEPARTURE—VILLERVILLE]
The owners of the villa Belle10 Etoile, our friend announced, he had found greatly depressed11; of this, their passing mood, he had taken such advantage as only comes to the knowing. "They speak of themselves drearily12 as 'deux pauvres malheureux' with this villa still on their hands, and here they are almost 'touching13 June,' as they put it. They also gave me to understand that only the finest flowers of the aristocracy had had the honor of dwelling14 in this villa. They have been able, I should say, more or less successfully to deflower this 'fine fleur' of some of their gold. But they are very meek15 just now—they were willing to listen to reason."
The "two poor unhappies" were looking surprisingly contented16 an hour later, when we went in to inspect our possessions. They received us with such suave17 courtesy, that I was quite certain Renard's skill in transactions had not played its full gamut18 of capacity.
Civility is the Frenchman's mask; he wears it as he does his skin—as a matter of habit. But courtesy is his costume de bal; he can only afford to don his bravest attire19 of smiles and graciousness when his pocket is in holiday mood. Madame Fouchet we found in full ball-room toilet; she was wreathed in smiles. Would ces dames20 give themselves the trouble of entering? would they see the house or the garden first? would they permit their trunks to be sent for? Monsieur Fouchet, meanwhile, was making a brave second to his wife's bustling21 welcome; he was rubbing his hands vigorously, a somewhat suspicious action in a Frenchman, I have had occasion to notice, after the completion of a bargain. Nature had cast this mild-eyed individual for the part of accompanyist in the comedy we call life; a r?le he sometimes varied22 as now, with the office of claqueur, when an uncommonly23 clever proof of madame's talent for business drew from him this noiseless tribute of applause. His weak, fat contralto called after us, as we followed madame's quick steps up the waxed stairway; he would be in readiness, he said, to show us the garden, "once the chambers were visited."
"It wasn't a real stroke, mesdames, it was only a warning!" was the explanation conveyed to us in loud tones, with no reserve of whispered delicacy24, when we expressed regret at monsieur's detention25 below stairs; a partially26 paralyzed leg, dragged painfully after the latter's flabby figure, being the obvious cause of this detention.
The stairway had the line of beauty, describing a pretty curve before its glassy steps led us to a narrow entry; it had also the brevity which is said to be the very soul, l'anima viva, of all true wit; but it was quite long and straight enough to serve Madame Fouchet as a stage for a prolonged monologue27, enlivened with much affluence28 of gesture. Fouchet's seizure29, his illness, his convalescence30, and present physical condition—a condition which appeared to be bristling31 with the tragedy of danger, "un vrai drame d'anxiété"—was graphically32 conveyed to us. The horrors of the long winter also, so sad for a Parisian—"si triste pour la Parisienne, ces hivers de province"—together with the miseries33 of her own home life, between this paralytic34 of a husband below stairs, and above, her mother, an old lady of eighty, nailed to her sofa with gout. "You may thus figure to yourselves, mesdames, what a melancholy35 season is the winter! And now, with this villa still on our hands, and the season already announcing itself, ruin stares us in the face, mesdames—ruin!"
It was a moving picture. Yet we remained strangely unaffected by this tale of woe36. Madame Fouchet herself, the woman, not the actress, was to blame, I think, for our unfeelingness. Somehow, to connect woe, ruin, sadness, melancholy, or distress37, in a word, of any kind with our landlady38's opulent figure, we found a difficult acrobatic mental feat39. She presented to the eye outlines and features that could only be likened, in point of prosperity, to a Dutch landscape. Like certain of the mediaeval saints presented by the earlier delineators of the martyrs40 as burning above a slow fire, while wearing smiles of purely41 animal content, as if in full enjoyment42 of the temperature, this lady's sufferings were doubtless an invisible discipline, the hair shirt which her hardened cuticle43 felt only to be a pleasurable itching44.
"Voilà, mesdames!" It was with a magnificent gesture that madame opened doors and windows. The drama of her life was forgotten for the moment in the conscious pride of presenting us with such a picture as her gay little house offered.
Inside and out, summer and the sun were blooming and shining with spendthrift luxuriance. The salon45 opened directly on the garden; it would have been difficult to determine just where one began and the domain46 of the other ended, with the pinks and geraniums that nodded in response to the peach and pear blossoms in the garden. A bit of faded Aubusson and a print representing Madame Geoffrin's salon in full session, with a poet of the period transporting the half-moon grouped listeners about him to the point of tears, were evidences of the refined tastes of our landlady in the arts; only a sentimentalist would have hung that picture in her salon. Other decorations further proved her as belonging to both worlds. The chintzes gay with garlands of roses, with which walls, beds, and chairs were covered, revealed the mundane47 element, the woman of decorative48 tastes, possessed49 of a hidden passion for effective backgrounds. Two or three wooden crucifixes, a prie-dieu, and a couple of saints in plaster, went far to prove that this excellent bourgeoise had thriftily51 made her peace with Heaven. It was a curious mixture of the sacred and the profane52.
Down below, beneath the windows overlooking the sea, lay the garden. All the houses fronting the cliff had similar little gardens, giving, as the French idiom so prettily53 puts it, upon the sea. But compared to these others, ours was as a rose of Sharon blooming in the midst of little deserts. Renard had been entirely54 right about this particular bit of earth attached to our villa. It was a gem55 of a garden. It was a French garden, and therefore, entirely as a matter of course, it had walls. It was as cut off from the rest of the world as if it had been a prison or a fortification.
The Frenchman, above all others, appears to have the true sentiment of seclusion56, when the society of trees and flowers is to be enjoyed. Next to woman, nature is his fetish. True to his national taste in dress, he prefers that both should be costumed à la Parisienne; but as poet and lover, it is his instinct to build a wall about his idol57, that he may enjoy his moments of expansion unseen and unmolested. This square of earth, for instance, was not much larger than the space covered by the chamber8 roof above us; and yet, with the high walls towering over the rose-stalks, it was as secluded58 as a monk's cloister59. We found it, indeed, on later acquaintance, as poetic60 and delicately sensuous61 a retreat as the romance-writers would wish us to believe did those mediaeval connoisseurs62 of comfort, when, with sandalled feet, they paced their own convent garden-walks. Fouchet was a broken-down shopkeeper; but somewhere hidden within, there lurked63 the soul of a Maecenas; he knew how to arrange a feast—of roses. The garden was a bit of greensward, not much larger than a pocket handkerchief; but the grass had the right emerald hue64, and one's feet sank into the rich turf as into the velvet65 of an oriental rug. Small as was the enclosure, between the espaliers and the flower-beds serpentined66 minute paths of glistening67 pebbles68. Nothing which belonged to a garden had been forgotten, not even a pine from the tropics, and a bench under the pine that was just large enough for two. This latter was an ideal little spot in which to bring a friend or a book. One could sit there and gorge69 one's self with sweets; a dance was perpetually going on—the gold-and-purple butterflies fluttering gayly from morning till night; and the bees freighted the air with their buzzing. If one tired of perfumes and dancing, there was always music to be enjoyed, from a full orchestra. The sea, just the other side of the wall of osiers, was always in voice, whether sighing or shouting. The larks70 and blackbirds had a predilection71 for this nest of color, announcing their preference loudly in a combat of trills. And once or twice, we were quite certain, a nightingale with Patti notes had been trying its liquid scales in the dark.
It was in this garden that our acquaintance with our landlord deepened into something like friendship. Monsieur Fouchet was always to be found there, tying up the rose-trees, or mending the paths, or shearing72 the bit of turf.
"Mon jardin, c'est un peu moi, vous savez—it is my pride and my consolation73." At the latter word, Fouchet was certain to sigh.
Then we fell to wondering just what grief had befallen this amiable74 person which required Horatian consolation. Horace had need of rose-leaves to embalm75 his disappointments, for had he not cooled his passions by plunging76 into the bath of literature? Besides, Horace was bitten by the modern rabies: he was as restless as an American. When at Rome was he not always sighing for his Sabine farm, and when at the farm always regretting Rome? But this harmless, innocent-eyed, benevolent-browed old man, with his passive brains tied up in a foulard, o' morning's, and his bourgeois50 feet adorned77 with carpet slippers78, what grief in the past had bitten his poor soul and left its mark still sore?
"It isn't monsieur—it is madame who has made the past dark," was Renard's comment, when we discussed our landlord's probable acquaintance with regret—or remorse79.
Whatever secret of the past may have hovered80 over the Fouchet household, the evil bird had not made its nest in madame's breast, that was clear; her smooth, white brow was the sign of a rose-leaf conscience; that dark curtain of hair, looped madonna-wise over each ear, framed a face as unruffled as her conscience.
She was entirely at peace with her world, and with heaven as well, that was certain. Whatever her sins, the confessional had purged81 her. Like others, doubtless, she had found a husband and the provinces excellent remedies for a damaged reputation. She lived now in the very odor of sanctity; the cure had a pipe in her kitchen, with something more sustaining, on certain bright afternoons. Although she was daily announcing to us her approaching dissolution—"I die, mesdames—I die of ennui"—it seemed to me there were still signs, at times, of a vigorous resuscitation82. The cure's visits were wont83 to produce a deeper red in the deep bloom of her cheek; the mayor and his wife, who drank their Sunday coffee in the arbor84, brought, as did Beatrix's advent85 to Dante, vita nuova to this homesick Parisian.
There were other pleasures in her small world, also, which made life endurable. Bargaining, when one teems86 with talent, may be as exciting as any other form of conquest. Madame's days were chiefly passed in imitation of the occupation so dear to an earlier, hardier87 race, that race kings have knighted for their powers in dealing88 mightily89 with their weaker neighbors. Madame, it is true, was only a woman, and Villerville was somewhat slimly populated. But in imitation of her remote feudal90 lords, she also fell upon the passing stranger, demanding tribute. When the stranger did not pass, she kept her arm in practice, so to speak, by extracting the last sou in a transaction from a neighbor, or by indulging in a drama in which the comedy of insult was matched by the tragedy of contempt.
One of these mortal combats it was my privilege to witness. The war arose on our announcement to Mère Mouchard, the lady of the inn by the sea, of our decision to move next door. To us Mère Mouchard presented the unruffled plumage of a dove; her voice also was as the voice of the same, mellowed91 by sucking. Ten minutes later the town was assembled to lend its assistance at the encounter between our two landladies92. Each stood on their respective doorsteps with arms akimbo and head thrust forward, as geese protrude93 head and tongue in moments of combat. And it was thus, the mere94 hissed95, that her boarders were stolen from her—under her very nose—while her back was turned, with no more thought of honesty or shame than a——. The word was never uttered. The mère's insult was drowned in a storm of voices? for there came a loud protest from the group of neighbors. Madame Fouchet, meanwhile, was sustaining her own role with great dignity. Her attitude of self-control could only have been learned in a school where insult was an habitual96 weapon. She smiled, an infuriating, exasperating97, successful smile. She showed a set of defiant98 white teeth, and to her proud white throat she gave a boastful curve. Was it her fault if ces dames knew what comfort and cleanliness were? if they preferred "des chambres garnies avec go?t, vraiment artistiques"—to rooms fit only for peasants? Ces dames had just come from Paris; doubtless, they were not yet accustomed to provincial99 customs—aux moeurs provinciales. Then there were exchanged certain melodious100 acerbities, which proved that these ladies had entered the lists on previous occasions, and that each was well practised in the other's methods of warfare101. Opportunely102, Renard appeared on the scene; his announcement that we proposed still to continue taking our repasts with the mere, was as oil on the sea of trouble. A reconciliation103 was immediately effected, and the street as immediately lost all interest in the play, the audience melting away as speedily as did the wrath104 of the disputants.
"Le bon Dieu soit loué," cried Madame Fouchet, puffing105, as she mounted the stairs a few moments later—"God be praised"—she hadn't come here to the provinces to learn her rights—to be taught her alphabet. Mère Mouchard, forsooth, who wanted a week's board as indemnity106 for her loss of us! A week's board—for lodgings107 scorned by peasants!
"Ah, these Normans! what a people, what a people! They would peel the skin off your back! They would sell their children! They would cheat the devil himself!"
"You, madame, I presume, are from Paris." Madame smiled as she answered, a thin fine smile, richly seasoned with scorn. "Ah, mesdames! All the world can't boast of Paris as a birthplace, unfortunately. I also, I am a Norman, mais je ne m'en fiche pas! Most of my life, however, I've lived in Paris, thank God!" She lifted her head as she spoke108, and swept her hands about her waist to adjust the broad belt, an action pregnant with suggestions. For it was thus conveyed to us, delicately, that such a figure as hers was not bred on rustic109 diet; also, that the Parisian glaze110 had not failed of its effect on the coarser provincial clay.
Meanwhile, below in the garden, her husband was meekly111 tying up his rose-trees.
Neither of the landladies' husbands had figured in the street-battle. It had been a purely Amazonian encounter, bloodless but bitter. Both the husbands of these two belligerent112 landladies appeared singularly well trained. Mouchard, indeed, occupied a comparatively humble sphere in his wife's ménage. He was perpetually to be seen in the court-yard, at the back of the house, washing dogs, or dishes, in a costume in which the greatest economy of cloth compatible with decency113 had been triumphantly114 solved. His wife ran the house, and he ran the errands, an arrangement which, apparently115, worked greatly to the satisfaction of both. But Mouchard was not the first or the second French husband who, on the threshold of his connubial116 experience, had doubtless had his role in life appointed to him, filling the same with patient acquiescence117 to the very last of the lines.
There is something very touching in the subjection of French husbands. In point of meekness118 they may well serve, I think, as models to their kind. It is a meekness, however, which does not hint of humiliation119; for, after all, what humiliation can there be in being thoroughly120 understood? The Frenchwoman, by virtue121 of centuries of activity, in the world and in the field, has become an expert in the art of knowing her man; she has not worked by his side, under the burn of the noon sun, or in the cimmerian darkness of the shop-rear, counting the pennies, for nothing. In exchanging her illusions for the bald front of fact, man himself has had to pay the penalty of this mixed gain. She tests him by purely professional standards, as man tests man, or as he has tested her, when in the ante-matrimonial days he weighed her dot in the scale of his need. The Frenchwoman and Shakespeare are entirely of one mind; they perceive the great truth of unity122 in the scheme of things:
"Woman's test is man's taste."
This is the first among the great truths in the feminine grammar of assent123. French masculine taste, as its criterion, has established the excellent doctrine124 of utilitarianism. With quick apprehension125 the Frenchwoman has mastered this fact; she has cleverly taken a lesson from ophidian habits—she can change her skin, quickly shedding the sentimentalist, when it comes to serious action, to don the duller raiment of utility. She has accepted her world, in other words, as she finds it, with a philosopher's shrug126. But the philosopher is lined with the logician128; for this system of life has accomplished129 the miracle of making its women logical; they have grasped the subtleties130 of inductive reasoning. Marriage, for example, they know is entered into solely131 on the principle of mutual132 benefit; it is therefore a partnership133, bon; now, in partnerships134 sentiments and the emotions are out of place, they only serve to dim the eye; those commodities, therefore, are best conveyed to other markets than the matrimonial one; for in purely commercial transactions one has need of perfect clearness of vision, if only to keep one well practised in that simple game called looking out for one's own interest. In Frenchwomen, the ratiocinationist is extraordinarily135 developed; her logic127 penetrates136 to the core of things.
Hence it is that Mouchard washes dishes.
Monsieur Jourdain, in Molière's comedy, who expressed such surprise at finding that he had been talking prose for forty years without knowing it, was no more amazed than would Mère Mouchard have been had you announced to her that she was a logician; or that her husband's daily occupations in the bright little court-yard were the result of a system. Yet both facts were true.
In that process we now know as the survival of the fittest, the mère's capacity had snuffed out her weaker spouse's incompetency137; she had taken her place at the helm, because she belonged there by virtue of natural fitness. There were no tender illusions which would suffer, in seeing the husband allotted138 to her, probably by her parents and the dot system, relegated139 to the ignominy of passing his days washing dishes—dishes which she cooked and served—dishes, it should be added, which she was entirely conscious were cooked by the hand of genius, and which she garnished140 with a sauce and served with a smile, such as only issue from French kitchens.
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1
annexation
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| n.吞并，合并 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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gamut
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| n.全音阶，(一领域的)全部知识 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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detention
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| n.滞留，停留；拘留，扣留；(教育)留下 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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graphically
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| adv.通过图表；生动地，轮廓分明地 | |
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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paralytic
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| adj. 瘫痪的 n. 瘫痪病人 | |
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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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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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cuticle
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| n.表皮 | |
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itching
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| adj.贪得的，痒的，渴望的v.发痒( itch的现在分词 ) | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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thriftily
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| 节俭地； 繁茂地； 繁荣的 | |
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profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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55
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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56
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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57
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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58
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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59
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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60
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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61
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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62
connoisseurs
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| n.鉴赏家，鉴定家，行家( connoisseur的名词复数 ) | |
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63
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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64
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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65
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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66
serpentined
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| v.像蛇般蜷曲的，蜿蜒的( serpentine的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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68
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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69
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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70
larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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71
predilection
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| n.偏好 | |
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72
shearing
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| n.剪羊毛，剪取的羊毛v.剪羊毛( shear的现在分词 )；切断；剪切 | |
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73
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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74
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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75
embalm
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| v.保存（尸体）不腐 | |
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76
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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77
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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78
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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79
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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80
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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81
purged
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| 清除（政敌等）( purge的过去式和过去分词 )； 涤除（罪恶等）； 净化（心灵、风气等）； 消除（错事等）的不良影响 | |
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82
resuscitation
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| n.复活 | |
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83
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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84
arbor
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| n.凉亭；树木 | |
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85
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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86
teems
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| v.充满( teem的第三人称单数 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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87
hardier
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| 能吃苦耐劳的，坚强的( hardy的比较级 )； （植物等）耐寒的 | |
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88
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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89
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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90
feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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91
mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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92
landladies
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| n.女房东，女店主，女地主( landlady的名词复数 ) | |
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protrude
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| v.使突出，伸出，突出 | |
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94
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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95
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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96
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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98
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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99
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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100
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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101
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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102
opportunely
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| adv.恰好地，适时地 | |
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103
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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104
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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105
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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106
indemnity
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| n.赔偿，赔款，补偿金 | |
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107
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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108
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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109
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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110
glaze
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| v.因疲倦、疲劳等指眼睛变得呆滞，毫无表情 | |
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111
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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112
belligerent
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| adj.好战的，挑起战争的；n.交战国，交战者 | |
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113
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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114
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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115
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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116
connubial
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妇的 | |
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117
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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118
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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119
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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120
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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121
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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122
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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123
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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124
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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125
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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126
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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127
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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128
logician
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| n.逻辑学家 | |
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129
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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130
subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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131
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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132
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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133
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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134
partnerships
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| n.伙伴关系( partnership的名词复数 )；合伙人身份；合作关系 | |
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135
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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136
penetrates
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| v.穿过( penetrate的第三人称单数 )；刺入；了解；渗透 | |
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137
incompetency
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| n.无能力，不适当 | |
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138
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
relegated
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| v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
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140
garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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