Although Madame de Sévigné had comfortably ensconced herself in one of the deep window seats, piling the cushions behind her, no sooner was the window opened than with characteristic impetuosity she jumped up to look out into the country that lay beyond the leaded glass. In spite of the long day's drive in the open air, her appetite for blowing roses and sweet earth smells had not been sated. Madame de Sévigné all her life had been the victim of two loves and a passion; she adored society and she loved nature; these were her lesser4 delights, that gave way before the chief idolatry of her soul, her adoration5 for her daughter.
[Illustration: MADAME DE SéVIGNé]
As she stood by the open window, her charming face, always a mirror of her emotions, was suffused6 with a glow and a bloom that made it seem young again. Her eyes grew to twice their common size under the "wandering" eyelids7, as her gaze roved over the meadows and across the tall grasses to the sea. A part of her youth was being, indeed, vividly8 brought back to her; the sight of this marine9 landscape recalled many memories; and with the recollection her whole face and figure seemed to irradiate something of the inward ardor10 that consumed her. She had passed this very road, through this same country before, long ago, in her youth, with her children. She half smiled at the remembrance of a description given of the impression produced by her appearance on the journey by her friend the Abbé Arnauld; he had ecstatically compared her to Latona seated in an open coach, between a youthful Apollo and a young Diana. In spite of the abbe's poetical11 extravagance, Madame de Sévigné recognized, in this moment of retrospect12, the truth of the picture. That, indeed, had been a radiant moment! Her life at that time had been so full, and the rapture13 so complete—the rapture of possessing her children—that she could remember to have had the sense of fairly evaporating happiness. And now, the sigh came, how scattered14 was this gay group! her son in Brittany, her daughter in Provence, two hundred leagues away! And she, an elderly Latona, mourning her Apollo and her divine huntress, her incomparable Diana.
The inextinguishable name of youth was burning still, however, in Madame de Sévigné's rich nature. This adventure, this amazing adventure of three ladies of the court having to pass the night in a rude little Normandy inn, she, for one, was finding richly seasoned with the spice of the unforeseen; it would be something to talk of and write about for a month hence at Chaulnes and at Paris. Their entire journey, in point of fact, had been a series of the most delightful15 episodes. It was now nearly a month since they had started from Picardy, from the castle of Chaulnes, going into Normandy via Rouen. They had been on a driving tour, their destination being Rennes, which they would reach in a week or so. They had been travelling in great state, with the very best coach, the very best horses; and they had been guarded by a whole regiment16 of cavaliers and halberdiers. Every possible precaution had been taken \against their being disagreeably surprised on their route. Their chief fear on the journey had been, of course, the cry common in their day of "Au voleur!" and the meeting of brigands17 and assassins; for, once outside of Paris and the police reforms of that dear Colbert, and one must be prepared to take one's life in one's hand. Happily, no such misadventures had befallen them. The roads, it is true, they had found for the most part in a horrible condition; they had been pitched about from one end of their coach to the other they might easily have imagined themselves at sea. The dust also had nearly blinded them, in spite of their masks. The other nuisances most difficult to put up with had been the swarm18 of beggars that infested19 the roadsides; and worst of all had been the army of crippled, deformed21, and mangy soldiers. These latter they had encountered everywhere; their whines22 and cries, their armless, legless bodies, their hideous23 filth24, and their insolent25 importunities, they had found a veritable pest.
Another annoyance26 had been the over-zealous courtesy of some of the upper middle-class. Only yesterday, in the very midst of the dust and under the burning noon sun, they had all been forced to alight, to receive the homage27 tendered the duchesse, of some thirty women and as many men. Each one of the sixty must, of course, kiss the duchesse's hand. It was really an outrage28 to have exposed them to such a form of torture! Poor Madame de Kerman, the delicate one of the party, had entirely29 collapsed30 after the ceremony. The duchesse also had been prostrated31; it had wearied her more than all the rest of the journey. Madame de Sévigné alone had not suffered. She was possessed32 of a degree of physical fortitude33 which made her equal to any demand. The other two ladies, as well as she herself, were now experiencing the pleasant exhilaration which comes with the hour of rest after an excellent dinner. They were in a condition to remember nothing except the agreeable. Madame de Sévigné was the first to break the silence.
She turned, with a brisk yet graceful34 abruptness35, to the two ladies still seated before the low fire. With a charming outburst of enthusiasm she exclaimed aloud:
"What a beauty, and youth, and tenderness this spring has, has it not?"
"Yes," answered the duchesse, smiling graciously into Madame de Sévigné's brilliantly lit face; "yes, the weather in truth has been perfect."
"What an adorable journey we have had!" continued Madame de Sévigné, in the same tone, her ardor undampened by the cooler accent of her friend—she was used to having her enthusiasm greeted with consideration rather than response. "What a journey!—only meeting with the most agreeable of adventures; not the slightest inconvenience anywhere; eating the very best of everything; and driving through the heart of this enchanting36 springtime!"
Her listeners laughed quietly, with an accent of indulgence. It was the habit of her world to find everything Madame de Sévigné did or said charming. Even her frankness was forgiven her, her tact37 was so perfect; and her spontaneity had always been accounted as her chief excellence38; in the stifled39 air of the court and the ruelles it had been frequently likened to the blowing in of a fresh May breeze. Her present mood was one well known to both ladies.
"Always 'pretty pagan,' dear madame," smiled Madame de Kerman, indulgently. "How well named—and what a happy hit of our friend Arnauld d'Audilly! You are in truth a delicious—an adorable pagan! You have such a sense of the joy of living! Why, even living in the country has, it appears, no terrors for you. We hear of your walking about in the moonlight-you make your very trees talk, they tell us, in Italian—in Latin; you actually pass whole hours alone with the hamadryads!" There was just a suspicion of irony40 in Madame de Kerman's tone, in spite of its caressing41 softness; it was so impossible to conceive of anyone really finding nature endurable, much less pretending to discover in trees and flowers anything amusing or suggestive of sentiment!
But Madame de Sévigné was quite impervious42 to her friend's raillery.
She responded, with perfect good humor:
"Why not?—why not try to discover beauties in nature? One can be so happy in a wood! What a charming thing to hear a leaf sing! I know few things more delightful than to watch the triumph of the month of May when the nightingale, the cuckoo, and the lark43 open the spring in our forests! And then, later, come those beautiful crystal days of autumn—days that are neither warm, nor yet are they really cold! And then the trees—how eloquent44 they can be made; with a little teaching they may be made to converse45 so charmingly. Bella cosa far aniente, says one of my trees; and another answers, Amor odit inertes. Ah, when I had to bid farewell to all my leaves and trees; when my son had to dispose of the forest of Buron, to pay for some of his follies46, you remember how I wept! It seemed to me I could actually feel the grief of those dispossessed sylvans and of all those homeless dryads!"
"It is this, dear friend—this life you lead at Les Rochers—and your enthusiasm, which keep you so young. Yes, I am sure of it. How inconceivably young, for instance, you are looking this very evening! You and the glow out yonder make youth seem no longer a legend."
The duchesse delivered her flattering little speech with a caressing tone. She moved gently forward in her chair, as if to gain a better view of the twilight47 and her friend. At the sound of the duchesse's voice Madame de Sévigné again turned, with the same charming smile and the quick impulsiveness48 of movement common to her. During her long monologue49 she had remained standing50; but she left the window now to regain51 her seat amid the cushions of the window. There was something better than the twilight and the spring in the air; here, within, were two delightful friends-and listeners; there was before her, also, the prospect52 of one of those endless conversations that were the chief delight of her life.
She laughed as she seated herself—a gay, frank, hearty53 little laugh—and she spread out her hands with the opening of her fan, as, with her usual vivacious54 spontaneity, her mood changed.
"Fancy, dear duchesse, the punishment that comes to one who commits the crime of looking young—younger than one ought! My son-in-law, M. de Grignan, actually avows55 he is in daily terror lest I should give him a father-in-law!"
All three ladies laughed gayly at this absurdity56; the subject of Madame de Sévigné's remarrying had come to be a venerable joke now. It had been talked of at court and in society for nearly forty years; but such was the conquering power of her charms that these two friends, her listeners, saw nothing really extravagant57 in her son-in-law's fear; she was one of those rare women who, even at sixty, continue to suggest the altar rather than the grave. Madame de Kerman was the first to recover her breath after the laughter.
"Dear friend, you might assure him that after a youth and the golden meridian58 of your years passed in smiling indifference59 to the sighs of a Prince de Conti, of a Turenne, of a Fouquet, of a Bussy de Rabutin, at sixty it is scarcely likely that—"
"Ah, dear lady at sixty, when one has the complexion60 and the curls, to say nothing of the eyes of our dear enchantress, a woman is as dangerous as at thirty!" The duchesse's flattery was charmingly put, with just enough vivacity61 of tone to save it from the charge of insipidity62. Madame de Sévigné bowed her curls to her waist.
"Ah, dear duchesse, it isn't age," she retorted, quickly, "that could make me commit follies. It is the fact that that son-in-law of mine actually surrounds me with spies—he keeps me in perpetual surveillance. Such a state of captivity63 is capable of making me forget everything; I am beginning to develop a positive rage for follies. You know that has been my chief fault—always; discretion64 has been left out of my composition. But I say now, as I have always said, that if I could manage to live two hundred years, I should become the most delightful person in the world!"
She herself was the first to lead in the laughter that followed her outburst; and then the duchesse broke in:
"You talk of defects, dear friend; but reflect what a life yours has been. So surrounded and courted, and yet you were always so guarded; so free, and yet so wise! So gay, and yet so chaste65!"
"If you rubbed out all those flattering colors, dear duchesse, and wrote only, 'She worshipped her children, and preferred friends to lovers,' the portrait would be far nearer to the truth. It is easy to be chaste if one has only known one passion in one's life, and that the maternal66 one!"
Again a change passed over Madame de Sévigné's mobile face; the bantering67 tone was lost in a note of deep feeling. This gift of sensibility had always been accounted as one of Madame de Sévigné's chief charms; and now, at sixty, she was as completely the victim of her moods as in her earlier youth.
"Where is your daughter, and how is she?" sympathetically queried68 the duchesse.
"Oh, she is still at Grignan, as usual; she is well, thank God. But, dear duchesse, after all these years of separation I suffer still, cruelly." The tears sprang to Madame de Sévigné's eyes, as she added, with passion and a force one would scarcely have expected in one whose manners were so finished, "the truth is, dear friends, I cannot live without her. I do not find I have made the least progress in that career. But, even now, believe me, these tears are sweeter than all else in life—more enrapturing69 than the most transporting joy!"
Madame de Kerman smiled tenderly into the rapturous mother's face; but the duchesse moved, as if a little restless and uneasy under this shower of maternal feeling. For thirty years her friends had had to listen to Madame de Sévigné's rhapsodies over the perfections of her incomparable daughter. Although sensibility was not the emotional fashion of the day, maternity70, in the person of Madame de Sévigné, had been apotheosized into the queen of the passions, if only because of its rarity; still, even this lady's most intimate friends sometimes wearied of banqueting off the feast of Madame de Grignan's virtues71.
"Have you heard from Madame de La Fayette recently?" asked the duchesse, allowing just time enough to elapse, before putting the question, for Madame de Sévigné's emotion to subside72 into composure. The duchesse was too exquisitely74 bred to allow her impatience75 to take the form of even the appearance of haste.
"Oh, yes," was Madame de Sévigné's quiet reply; the turn in the conversation had been instantly understood, in spite of the delicacy76 of the duchesse's methods. "Oh, yes—I have had a line—only a line. You know how she detests77 writing, above all things. Her letters are all the same—two lines to say that she has no time in which to say it!"
"Did she not once write you a pretty little series of epigrams about not writing?"
"Oh, yes—some time ago, when I was with my daughter. I've quoted them so often, they have become famous. 'You are in Provence, my beauty; your hours are free, and your mind still more so. Your love for corresponding with everyone still endures within you, it appears; as for me, the desire to write to any human being has long since passed away-forever; and if I had a lover who insisted on a letter every morning, I should certainly break with him!'"
"What a curious compound she is! And how well her soubriquet becomes her!"
"Yes, it is perfect—'Le Brouillard'—the fog. It is indeed a fog that has always enveloped78 her, and what charming horizons are disclosed once it is lifted!"
"And her sensibilities—of what an exquisite73 quality; and what a rare, precious type, indeed, is the whole of her nature! Do you remember how alarmed she would become when listening to music?"
"And yet, with all this sensibility and delicacy of organization there was another side to her nature." Madame de Kerman paused a moment before she went on; she was not quite sure how far she dared go in her criticism; Madame de La Fayette was such an intimate friend of Madame de Sévigné's.
"You mean," that lady broke out, with unhesitating candor79, "that she is also a very selfish person. You know that is my daughter's theory of her—she is always telling me how Madame de La Fayette is making use of me; that while her sensitiveness is such that she cannot sustain the tragedy of a farewell visit—if I am going to Les Rochers or to Provence, when I go to pay my last visit I must pretend it is only an ordinary running-in; yet her delicacy does not prevent her from making very indelicate proposals, to suit her own convenience. You remember what one of her commands was, don't you?"
"No," answered the duchesse, for both herself and her companion. "Pray tell us."
Madame de Sévigné went on to narrate80 that once, when at Les Rochers, Madame de La Fayette was quite certain that she, Madame de Sévigné, was losing her mind, for no one could live in the provinces and remain sane81, poring over stupid books and sitting over fires.
"She was certain I should sicken and die, besides losing the tone of my mind," laughed Madame de Sévigné, as she called up the picture of her dissolution and rapid disintegration82; "and therefore it was necessary at once that I should come up to Paris. This latter command was delivered in the tone of a judge of the Supreme83 Court. The penalty of my disobedience was to be her ceasing to love me. I was to come up to Paris directly—on the minute; I was to live with you, dear duchesse; I was not to buy any horses until spring; and, best of all, I was to find on my arrival a purse of a thousand crowns which would be lent me without interest! What a proposition, mon Dieu, what a proposition! To have no house of my own, to be dependent, to have no carriage, and to be in debt a thousand crowns!"
As Madame de Sévigné lifted her hands the laces of her sleeves were fairly trembling with the force of her indignation. There were certain things that always put her in a passion, and Madame de La Fayette's peculiarities85 she had found at times unendurable. Her listeners had followed her narration86 with the utmost intensity87 and absorption. When she stopped, their eyes met in a look of assenting88 comment.
"It was perfectly89 characteristic, all of it! She judged you, doubtless, by herself. She always seems to me, even now, to keep one eye on her comfort and the other on her purse!"
"Ah, dear duchesse, how keen you are!" laughingly acquiesced90 Madame de Sévigné, as with a shrug91 she accepted the verdict—her indignation melting with the shrug. "And how right! No woman ever drives better bargains, without moving a finger. From her invalid's chair she can conduct a dozen lawsuits92. She spends half her existence in courting death; she caresses93 her maladies; she positively94 hugs them; but she can always be miraculously95 resuscitated96 at the word money!"
"Yes," added with a certain relish97 Madame de Kerman. "And this is the same woman who must be forever running away from Paris because she can no longer endure the exertion98 of talking, or of replying, or of listening; because she is wearied to extinction99, as she herself admits, of saying good-morning and good-evening. She must hide herself in some pastoral retreat, where simply, as she says, 'to exist is enough;' where she can remain, as it were, miraculously suspended between heaven and earth!"
A ripple20 of amused laughter went round the little group; there was nothing these ladies enjoyed so keenly as a delicate dish of gossip, seasoned with wit, and stuffed with epigrams. This talk was exactly to their taste. The silence and seclusion101 of their surroundings were an added stimulus102 to confidence and to a freer interchange of opinions about their world. Paris and Versailles seemed so very far away; it would appear safe to say almost anything about one's dearest friends. There was nothing to remind them of the restraints of levees, or the penalty indiscretion must pay for folly103 breathed in that whispering gallery—the ruelle. It was indeed a delightful hour; altogether an ideal situation.
The fire had burned so low only a few embers were alive now, and the candles were beginning to flicker104 and droop105 in the sconces. But the three ladies refused to find the little room either cold or dark; their talk was not half done yet, and their muffs would keep them warm. The shadow of the deepening gloom they found delightfully106 provocative108 of confidences.
After a short pause, while Madame de Kerman busied herself with the tongs109 and the fagots, trying to reinvigorate the dying flames, the duchesse asked, in a somewhat more intimate tone than she had used yet:
"And the duke—do you really think she loved the Duke de La
Rochefoucauld?"
"She reformed him, dear duchesse; at least she always proclaims his reform as the justification110 of her love."
"You—you esteemed111 him yourself very highly, did you not?"
"Oh, I loved him tenderly; how could one help it? He was the best as well as the most brilliant of men! I never knew a tenderer heart; domestic joys and sorrows affected112 him in a way to render him incomparable. I have seen him weep over the death of his mother, who only died eight years before him, you know, with a depth of sincerity113 that made me adore him."
"He must in truth have been a very sincere person."
"Sincere!" cried Madame de Sévigné, her eyes flaming. "Had you but seen his deathbed! His bearing was sublime114! Believe me, dear friend, it was not in vain that M. de La Rochefoucauld had written philosophic115 reflections all his life; he had already anticipated his last moments in such a way that there was nothing either new or strange in death when it came to him."
"Madame de La Fayette truly mourned him—don't you think so? You were with her a great deal, were you not, after his death?"
"I never left her. It was the most pitiable sight to see her in her loneliness and her misery116. You see, their common ill-health and their sedentary habits, had made them so necessary to each other! It was, as it were, two souls in a single body. Nothing could exceed the confidence and charm of their friendship; it was incomparable. To Madame de La Fayette his loss came as her death-blow; life seems at an end for her; for where, indeed, can she find another such friend, or such intercourse117, such sweetness and charm—such confidence and consideration?"
There was a moment's silence after Madame de Sévigné's eloquent outburst. The eyes of the three friends were lost for a moment in the twinkling flames. The duchesse and Madame de Kerman exchanged meaning glances.
"Since the duke's death her thoughts are more and more turned toward religion. I hear she has been fortunate in her choice of directors, has she not? Du Guet is said to be an ideal confessor for the authoress of 'La Princesse de Clèves.'" There was just a suspicion of malice118 in the duchesse's tones.
"Oh, he was born to take her in hand. He knew just when to speak with authority, and when to make use of the arts of persuasion119. He wrote to her once, you remember: 'You, who have passed your life in dreaming—cease to dream! You, who have taken such pride unto yourself for being so true in all things, were very far, indeed, from the truth—you were only half true—falsely true. Your godless wisdom was in reality purely120 a matter of good taste!'"
"What audacity121! Bossuet himself could not have put the truth more nakedly." The duchesse was one of those to whom truths were novelties, and unpleasant ones.
"Bossuet, if I remember rightly, was with the Duke de La Rochefoucauld at the last, was he not?"
"Yes," responded Madame de Sévigné; "he was with him; he administered the supreme unction. The duke was in a beautiful state of grace. M, Vinet, you remember, said of him that he died with 'perfect decorum.'"
"Speaking of dying reminds me"—cried suddenly Madame de Sévigné—"how are the duke's hangings getting on?"
"They begin, the duke writes me, to hang again to-morrow," answered the duchesse, with a certain air of disdain122, the first appearance of this weapon of the great now coming to the grande dame's aid. Her husband, the Duke de Chaulnes' trouble with his revolutionary citizens at Rennes was a subject that never failed to arouse a feeling of angry contempt in her. It was too preposterous123, the idea of those insolent creatures rising against him, their rightful duke and master!
The duchesse's feeling in the matter was fully107 shared by her friends. In all the court there was but one opinion in the matter—hanging was really far too good for the wretched creatures.
"Monsieur de Chaulnes," the duchesse went on, with ironical124 contempt in her voice, "still goes on punishing Rennes!"
"This province and the duke's treatment of it will serve as a capital example to all others. It will teach those rascals," Madame de Kerman continued, in lower tones, "to respect their governors, and not to throw stones into their gardens!"
"Fancy that—the audacity of throwing stones into their duke's garden! Why, did you know, they actually—those insolent creatures actually called him—called the duke—'gros cochon?'"
All three ladies gasped125 in horror at this unparalleled instance of audacity; they threw up their hands, as they groaned126 over the picture, in low tones of finished elegance128.
"It is little wonder the duke hangs right and left! The dear duke—what a model governor! How I should like to have seen him sack that street at Rennes, with all the ridiculous old men, and the women in childbirth, and the children, turned out pêle-mêle! And the hanging, too—why, hanging now seems to me a positively refreshing129 performance!" And Madame de Sévigné laughed with unstinted gayety as at an excellent joke.
The picture of Rennes and the cruelty dealt its inhabitants was a pleasant picture, in the contemplation of which these ladies evidently found much delectation. They were quiet for a longer period of time than usual; they continued silent, as they looked into the fire, smiling; the flames there made them think of other flames as forms of merited punishment.
"A curious people those Bas Bretons," finally ejaculated Madame de Sévigné. "I never could understand how Bertrand Duguesclin made them the best soldiers of his day in France!"
"You know Lower Brittany very well, do you not, dear friend?"
"Not so well as the coast. Les Rochers is in Upper Brittany, you know. I know the south better still. Ah, what a charming journey I once took along the Loire with my friend Bien-Bon, the Abbé de Coulanges. We found it the most enchanting country in the world—the country of feasts and of famine; feasts for us and famine for the people. I remember we had to cross the river; our coach was placed on the barge130, and we were rowed along by stout131 peasants. Through the glass windows of the coach we looked out at a series of changing pictures—the views were charming. We sat, of course, entirely at our ease, on our soft cushions. The country people, crowded together below, were—ugh!—like pigs in straw."
"Was Bien-Bon with you when you made that little excursion to St.
Germain?" queried the duchesse.
"Ah, that was a gay night," joyously132 responded Madame de Sévigné. "How well we amused ourselves on that little visit that we paid Madame de Maintenon—when she was only Madame Scarron."
"Was she so handsome then as they say she was—at that time?"
"Very handsome; she was good, too, and amiable133, and easy to talk to; one talked well and readily with her. She was then only the governess of the king's bastards134, you know—of the children he had had by Madame de Montespan. That was the first step toward governing the king. Well, one night—the night to which you refer—I remember we were all supping with Madame de La Fayette. We had been talking endlessly! Suddenly it occurred to us it would be a most amusing adventure to take Madame Scarron home, to the very last end of the Faubourg Saint Germain, far beyond where Madame de La Fayette lived—near Vaugirard, out into the Bois, in the country. The Abbé came too. It was midnight when we started. The house, when at last we reached it, we found large and beautiful, with large and fine rooms and a beautiful garden; for Madame Scarron, as governess of the king's children, had a coach and a lot of servants and horses. She herself dressed then modestly and yet magnificently, as a woman should, who spent her life among people of the highest rank. We had a merry outing, returning in high spirits, blessed in having no end of lanterns, and thus assured against robbers."
"She and Madame de La Fayette were very close friends, I remember, during that time," mused100 the duchesse, "when they were such near neighbors."
"Yes," Madame de Sévigné went on, as unwearied now, although it was nearly midnight, as in the beginning of the long evening. "Yes; I always thought Madame de Maintenon's satirical little joke about Madame de La Fayette's bed festooned with gold—'I might have fifty thousand pounds income, and never should I live in the style of a great lady; never should I have a bed festooned with gold like Madame de La Fayette'—was the beginning of their rupture135."
"All the same, Madame de La Fayette, lying on that bed, beneath the gold hangings, was a much more simple person than ever was Madame de Maintenon!"
"Your speaking of bed reminds me, dear ladies ours must be quite cold by this time. How we have chatted! What a delightful gossip! But we must not forget that our journey to-morrow is to be a long one!"
The duchesse rose, the other two ladies rising instantly, observing, in spite of the intimate relations in which they stood toward the duchesse, the deference136 due to her more exalted137 rank. The latter clapped her hands; outside the door a shuffling138 and a low groan127 were heard—the groan came from the sleepy lackey, roused from his deep slumber139, as he uncoiled himself from the close knot into which his legs and body were knit in the curve of the narrow stairs.
The ladies, a few seconds later, were wending their way up the steep turret140 steps. They were preceded by torches and followed by quite a long train of maids and lackeys141. For a long hour, at least, the little inn resounded142 with the sound of hurrying feet, of doors closing and shutting; with the echo of voices giving commands and of others purring in sleepy accents of obedience84. Then one by one the sounds died away; the lights went out in the bedchambers; faint flickerings stole through the chinks of doors and windows. The watchman cried out the hour, and the gleam of a lantern flashed here and there, illuminating143 the open court-yard. The cocks crowed shrilly144 into the night air. A halberdier turned in his sleep where he lay, on some straw beneath the coach-shed, his halberd rattling145 as it struck the cobbles. And over the whole—over the gentle slumber of the great ladies and the sleep of beast and man—there fell the peace and the stillness of the midnight—of that midnight of long ago.
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lackey
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| n.侍从；跟班 | |
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inevitable
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casements
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lesser
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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eyelids
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vividly
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marine
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ardor
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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13
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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14
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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15
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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16
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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17
brigands
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| n.土匪，强盗( brigand的名词复数 ) | |
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18
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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19
infested
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| adj.为患的，大批滋生的（常与with搭配）v.害虫、野兽大批出没于( infest的过去式和过去分词 )；遍布于 | |
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20
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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21
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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22
whines
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| n.悲嗥声( whine的名词复数 )；哀鸣者v.哀号( whine的第三人称单数 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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23
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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24
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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25
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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26
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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27
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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28
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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29
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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30
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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31
prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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32
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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33
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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34
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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35
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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36
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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37
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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38
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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39
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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40
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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41
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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42
impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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43
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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44
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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45
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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46
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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47
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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48
impulsiveness
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| n.冲动 | |
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49
monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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50
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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51
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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52
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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53
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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54
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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55
avows
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| v.公开声明，承认( avow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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56
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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57
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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58
meridian
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| adj.子午线的；全盛期的 | |
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59
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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60
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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61
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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62
insipidity
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| n.枯燥无味，清淡，无精神；无生气状 | |
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63
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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64
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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65
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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66
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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67
bantering
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| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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68
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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69
enrapturing
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的现在分词 ) | |
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70
maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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71
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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72
subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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73
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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74
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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75
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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76
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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77
detests
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的第三人称单数 ) | |
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78
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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80
narrate
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| v.讲，叙述 | |
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81
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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82
disintegration
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| n.分散，解体 | |
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83
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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84
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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85
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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86
narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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87
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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88
assenting
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| 同意，赞成( assent的现在分词 ) | |
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89
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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90
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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92
lawsuits
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| n.诉讼( lawsuit的名词复数 ) | |
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93
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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94
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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95
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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96
resuscitated
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| v.使（某人或某物）恢复知觉，苏醒( resuscitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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98
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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99
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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100
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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101
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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102
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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103
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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104
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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105
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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106
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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107
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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108
provocative
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| adj.挑衅的，煽动的，刺激的，挑逗的 | |
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109
tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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110
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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111
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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112
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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113
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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114
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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115
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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116
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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117
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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118
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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119
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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120
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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121
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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122
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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123
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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124
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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125
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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126
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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127
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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128
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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129
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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130
barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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132
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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133
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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134
bastards
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| 私生子( bastard的名词复数 )； 坏蛋； 讨厌的事物； 麻烦事 （认为别人走运或不幸时说）家伙 | |
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135
rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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136
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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137
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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138
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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139
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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140
turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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141
lackeys
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| n.听差( lackey的名词复数 )；男仆（通常穿制服）；卑躬屈膝的人；被待为奴仆的人 | |
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142
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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143
illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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144
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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145
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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