The letters were written during the memorable3 year 1876, marked by exciting political conventions and an even more exciting national election, and finally by the great Centennial Exposition. At this time Hearn was in his twenty-sixth year. He had been in the United States for nearly six years, and was at the time employed as a reporter on Mr. Murat Halstead's Cincinnati Commercial. Although he did not like this country and was at this time dreaming of returning some day to Europe, he had been trying for years to make a thoroughly4 competent newspaper reporter of himself. However, we gather from remarks in his letters that he was still regarded as only a minor5 member of the staff.
Among men his chief friend remained Mr. Watkin. If he had any friends among young women, he has left no record of them. He seems to have been more or less solitary6 always. He is constantly telling of his constraint7 in social gatherings8, of his inability to appear otherwise than cold to those around him. Life was indeed to him always a curious carnival9, in which one must be careful to keep on the mask, to guard the tongue lest one say something redounding10 to one's injury or discredit11.
With such characteristics, we are therefore at a loss to learn how his intimacy12 with the unknown began. It may have had its origin when some assignment in the line of newspaper duty took him to her home. One fancies the unknown must have had a keen eye for character and ability to discern anything unusual, anything love-worthy13, in the ill-dressed, somewhat ill-featured, shy, timid, little youth Hearn was at that time. It had not heretofore been his good fortune to attract. However that may be, the established fact of the friendship remains14.
The identity of the unknown is a secret. We are told that she was a woman of culture and refinement15; that she was possessed16 of some wealth; and, finally, that she was many years older than Hearn.
Mérimée has been referred to. The reference is forced upon us by Hearn himself. He mentions those famous "Lettres," and says he feels toward his "Dear Lady" as Mérimée did toward his "inconnue." The comparison is not exact. Indeed, it is rather a case of contrast. Like Mérimée, Hearn's motto seems to have been, with very rare exceptions, "Remember to distrust;" but, unlike Mérimée, Hearn was not a man of wealth and prominence18 and influence in his native land; unlike Mérimée, Hearn had not had all the advantages wealth and culture can give; unlike Mérimée, he had known, and was still destined19 to know, hard and bitter years.
With Mérimée, the French stylist par17 excellence20, impersonality21 was a passion. His was an impersonality that was broken down only in the famous "Lettres." Hearn, on the other hand, could not help injecting much of himself into his books. Nor does the contrast end there.
"For her first thoughts," as Walter Pater well says of the "Lettres" and the author's attitude toward the woman in the case, "Mérimée is always pleading, but always complaining that he gets only her second thoughts,—the thoughts, that is, of a reserved, self-limiting nature."
In the present collection of letters, the r?les are reversed. We gather from the letters that it was Hearn who never let himself go, who always kept himself under cautious restraint, and that it was the woman who resented these second thoughts, these promptings of careful meditations22 rather than of fresh, warm impulses.
In Mérimée the ardent23 lover alternated with the severe critic. He quarrelled with the unknown and then had reconciliations24, until at last the old love passed away into a form of calm friendship. In the meantime he packed his letters with keen criticisms of books, society, politics, arch?ology, noted25 people,—everything that interested a citizen of the world.
In Hearn we have the lonely little egotist, writing mainly about himself. In his appreciation26 of a woman's friendship and his pride in her cordial admiration27, he expands and reveals some part of his own thoughts, beliefs, studies. For the rest, the connection, on his side at least, seems to have been one of platonic28 friendship. The lady was more or less existing, Hearn being constantly occupied in explaining away what she was quick to fancy were slights.
She would seem to have been even more sensitive than he. To speak plainly, too, there is a note of evasion29 in his letters; despite his appreciation of her, he seems to have seized upon his newspaper work as an excuse for preventing their friendship becoming something more intimate. He kept things—at least in his letters—upon a very formal plane. He was to the recipient30, one fancies, provokingly distant in his "Dear Lady" form of address. There was an ominous31 sign in the constant reference to letters returned or unopened. Indeed, there finally came the breach32 that in the nature of things was inevitable33, and then all his letters were returned to him.
The young man did not destroy them. Shortly afterwards he departed for the South. It is not a little strange that in all the years in New Orleans that followed—lean years and fat, years of bitter poverty and of comparative prosperity—Hearn preserved this batch34 of letters intact. When nearing the age of forty and close to that period when he was to sail for Japan, the more or less matured man passed judgment35 upon the letters of his youth, found them good, and placed them in the keeping of his friend. He told Mr. Watkin to do with the faded missives what he deemed best. In some fashion he would seem to have felt that he was yet destined to accomplish something in the world of literature, and to have proudly thought that some day even these boyish screeds would be eagerly read.
As for these letters, as with most of Hearn's missives, they were for the most part undated,—written hurriedly on any kind of paper, often on mere36 scraps37.
He places himself before us as the "Oriental by birth and half by blood;" as a lad destined for Catholicism, and, instead of that, savagely38 attacking the religion of his mother. We have hints of the hard measure the world had dealt him and how he felt like a barbarian39 beyond the pale of polite society. He confesses himself ill at ease among the cultivated classes, and we dimly feel that there were in those years, before he came to Cincinnati, days so bitter that they left a permanent mark. Without religious faith, going to the boyish extreme of lightly attacking Christianity, he imagined himself ready to become a sort of ?sthetic pagan, worshipping Venus and the other gods of the antique world. As antagonistic41 to accepted pulpit teaching, he read Darwin, and pompously42 and not a little solemnly announced, "I accept Darwin fully43."
Perhaps no inconsiderable portion of this paganism was caused by his youthful worship of Swinburne. All young men in the late sixties and early seventies, with an ear for verbal music and magic, were swearing allegiance to the bard44 of the famous "Poems and Ballads45." Indeed, one feels that Hearn would have been a poet himself, had he but been gifted with the faculty46 of rhyme. Much of the other equipment of the poet was his in abundant measure,—the love of beauty, the love of lovely words, the joy in the manifold things of nature and art.
Speaking of Swinburne brings us to his reading, and we catch a glimpse of that little shelf of treasured books,—Balzacand Gautier and Rabelais in the French; Poe, to be sure; and—strange choice—the poems of Mr. Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
In these "Letters to a Lady" there is comparatively little discussion of literary subjects, save the mention of the fact that he is reading, always reading. Of literary criticism there is but little. In one letter, indeed, we do get a reference to the character of the Sultana of Aldrich's "Cloth of Gold," but this is a moral rather than a literary discussion. The sign that he was ranging far afield among other men's works, and also the hint of the writer that was to be, is given in little sentences dropped half unconsciously here and there,—sentences that to the student of Hearn's letters seem to be characteristic of his ways of thought, as when he says, "Somehow the ghosts of the letters I write by night laugh in my face by day;" or when he speaks of his horror of crowds and compares it to the terror of the desert camel being urged toward the white walls and shining minarets47 of the city beyond the desert; or when, curiously48 enough, he speaks of himself as seeming like a lizard49 in the July sun, a very similar turn of thought having been employed by Flaubert in one of his letters, which Hearn had probably never read, even though he did once plan a translation from that author.
It is only necessary in conclusion to call attention to one more letter in this section. As a matter of plain prose it would seem that the lady had complained of the coldness and the dubious50 tone of some of Hearn's letters and had returned them to him. In response he wrote to her a fable51 of a Sultan and a neighboring Sultana. He told how the Sultana complained of the Sultan's messengers, and how the Sultan committed them to death by fire. The lady was supposed, from this pretty fable, to draw the conclusion that Hearn's letters had been destroyed by their author. From the collection herewith appended, it can be seen that the fabulist availed himself of poetic52 license53.
I
Dear Friend: Your last kind letter makes me in some sort ashamed of my diffidence and coldness. Yet you must be aware how peculiarly I feel myself situated,—constrained, watched everywhere by a hundred eyes that know me, hemmed55 in with conventionalities of which I only know the value sufficiently56 to have my nerves on a perpetual strain through fear of breaking them. I am not by nature cold,—quite the reverse, indeed, as many a bitter experience taught me; and I beg you to attribute my manner rather to overcaution than to indifference57 to the feelings of others. Why, do not we all wear masks in this great carnival mummery of life, in which we all dance and smile disguisedly, until the midnight of our allotted58 pleasure time comes; and the King-Skeleton commands, "Masks off—show your skulls"? I am afraid you do not understand [me]; or rather, I feel sure you do not wholly,—for you have had little opportunity. You have only seen me on my best behavior; perhaps you might think less of me under other circumstances, but never think me a chilly60 phantom61, though you may occasionally see me only as the Shadow of that which I really am. Have I been rude? Try to forgive my rudeness. It was involuntary.... I think I understood your letters; and I did not form any opinion therefrom, I feel sure, which you would not have liked. I wish I could be less strained and conventional in company. Will try my best to do better. Sincerely,
L. Hearn
II
Dear Friend and Lady (if I may so call you): Do not suppose that when I delay answering one of your kind letters, the tardiness62 is attributable to neglect: or forgetfulness or inappreciation of your favor. I thoroughly feel—and feel keenly—every kind word or thought you have expressed or felt forme; I have never rendered you, it is true, a single compliment worthy of those I have received,—but only because I was sure that you understood my feelings better than if I had expressed them; I never write altogether as I think, partly because I am not naturally demonstrative, and while capable of more than ordinary sensitive feeling, I have a kind of reluctance63 to take off what I might term my little mask. Don't hesitate to scold me, as you threaten, should you think I deserve it....
I have been busy all day among noisy crowds of enthusiastic Catholics; and I shudder64 at the thought of entering a crowd at all times, just as the desert camel shudders65 when his driver urges him toward the white walls and the shining minarets of a city sparkling beyond the verge66 of the silent yellow waste. Consequently I was not able to write till late; and even now I am not in a good writing humor. One's skull59 becomes peopled with Dreams and Fantastic Things just before daybreak; and if you notice aught foolish or absurd in these lines, please attribute them to that weird67 influence which comes on us all—
"in the dead vast and middle of the night."
I must make one more visit to the Central Police Station ere cockcrow,—poetically speaking.
Sincerely,
Laf. Hearn
III
Cincinnati, Thursday, 27, 1876
Dear Lady: I return by mail the very interesting letters which you kindly68 left for my perusal69; also, the list of Mr.'s collection, whereof I have taken a copy. The other collectors are so slow in preparing their lists that I fear I shall not be able to publish a full account of their contributions to the World's Exposition for several days yet.... I am very thankful for your assistance in obtaining information regarding these things.
As an English subject, and one who feels a kind of home interest in European news, you may feel assured that the letters from beyond the "great water" interested me extremely.
The author gives a pleasant, realistic, and entertaining picture of the brilliant social affair whereof her letter treats; and her account would have done credit to most foreign newspaper correspondents, speaking from a journalistic point of view....
Believe me very respectfully yours,
L. Hearn
IV
There is a fragment in which is taken up the matter of invitations he has refused. It is chiefly interesting because of his expressed desire to return to Europe:
"I daily receive and pay no attention whatever to other invitations, because I know my presence is only desired for journalistic favors; but with you I regret to be unable to accept them quite as much as you could. In speaking of impulses, I refer merely to sudden actions without preparation,—such as your first note of yesterday; or your action on fancying that I had been talking too much; or your becoming vexed70 at me for what I could not help. You ought to know that I would do anything in my power to please you or to accommodate you....
"Let me also take this opportunity of thanking you for those books again. I have been very much fascinated by one of them and have not only read but re-read it. It is seemingly by some strange fatuity71 that your little invitations have latterly fallen on busy days. Last week it was all work; and this week I have had a very easy time of it. You looked at me yesterday as if I had done you some injury, and you hated to see me. If you go to Europe, my best wishes go with you. I hope to return there, and leave this country forever some day in the remote future.
"Do not be offended at my letter.
"L. H."
V
In a letter dated "Thursday p. m., 1876" we find him apologizing for some breach of etiquette72. He then, as usual, complains of the newspaper man's lot:
"This afternoon I received your kind note. One of the misfortunes of a journalistic existence is the inability of a newspaper man to fulfil an appointment, meet an engagement, or definitely accept an invitation not immediately connected with his round of regular duty, as he may at any moment be ordered to the most outlandish places in the pursuit of news. I think, however, that I may safely accept your kind invitation to dine with you on Sunday at one o'clock p. m., and also to ride out to Avondale. Nothing could give me greater pleasure; the more so as Sunday is an inordinately73 dull day in the newspaper sphere. I will certainly be on hand unless something very extraordinary should intervene to prevent; and in such event I shall endeavor to inform you beforehand, so as not to cause you any trouble.
"I remain, dear Lady,
"Very respectfully,
"L. Hearn"
VI
Cincinnati, Friday, 1876 DEAR LADY: I very much regret that I should have inadvertently worded my last note in so clumsy a manner as to make it appear that in accepting your kind invitation I was prospectively74 interested in nothing but "items" and thankful only for the opportunity of obtaining news. In mentioning that I was especially glad to accept your invitation on Sunday, "as it is an especially dull day for news," I simply meant that I would find more leisure time on Sunday than upon any other day in the week; and would thus feel more pleasure in making a call without being worried by office business. I hope you will therefore consider my rudeness the result of hurried writing and clumsy phraseology rather than of deliberate ignorance.
If it be agreeable to you, I will call upon you at 1 p. m. on Sunday as per invitation. I cannot definitely say, however, what I could do in the way of writing an account of other collections than what have already been spoken of, inasmuch as I am, you know, only a reporter in the office, and subject to orders from the City Editor.
As I have not written any letters except of a business character for several years, please to excuse any apparent lack of courtesy in my note. I am apt to say something malapropos without intending. I remain,
Very respectfully yours,
Lafcadio Hearn
VII
Dear Lady: Excuse my tardiness in replying to your kind and, may I say, too complimentary77 letter; for I scarcely deserve the courteous78 interest you have expressed in regard to myself. Also let me assure you that you are very much mistaken in fancying that I am so used to all kinds of people as to feel no pleasure in such introductions as that of Sunday evening. The fact is that I was very much pleased; but am so poor a hand at compliments that I feared even to express to Miss —— the pleasure I felt in her songs and playing, to wish you many happy returns of your birthday, or to hint how well I enjoyed the conversation of your lady sister. I have not visited out since I was sixteen,—nine years ago; have led a very hard and extraordinary life previous to my connection with the press,—became a species of clumsy barbarian,—and in short for various reasons considered myself ostracized79, tabooed, outlawed80. These facts should be sufficient to explain to you that I am not used to all sorts of people,—not to the cultivated class of people at all, and feel all the greater pleasure in such a visit as that referred to....
I have not had time yet to conclude the entertaining volume of travel you kindly sent me, but have read sufficient to interest me extremely. I find a vast number of novel and hitherto unpublished facts,—the results of more than ordinarily keen observation in the work. If I were reviewing the book, I might feel inclined to take issue with the author in respect: to his views concerning the work of the missionaries81 in Tahiti,—who have been, you know, most severely82 criticised by radically83 minded observers; but the writer's pictures are clearly defined, realistic, and powerfully drawn84. I must not waste your time, however, with further gossip just now.
Believe me, dear Lady,
Very respectfully yours,
L. Hearn
VIII
Dear Lady: I am not so insusceptible to such pretty flattery as yours, even though I think it undeserved, as to feel otherwise than pleased. Of course I am vain enough to be gratified at anything good said of me by you or your friends. In regard to enjoying music and flowers, I would only say that I love everything beautiful, and can only look at the social, ethical85, or natural world with the eyes of a pagan rather than a Christian40, revering86 the heathen philosophy of ?sthetic sense; and surely so must all who truly love the antique loveliness of the Antique World, which deified all fair things and worshipped only those beauties of form and sense whereof it brought forth87 the highest types. But to speak truly, I am afraid of parties; one's nerves are ever on a painful strain in the effort to be agreeable, in the fear of doing something gauche88, and in the awful perplexity of searching for compliments which must fall on the ear as vapid89 and commonplace,—vanity and vexation of spirit. Indeed, I much enjoyed the little party the other night, because it was a home circle; and I did not feel as though people were scrutinizing90 my face, my manners, my dress, or criticising my words with severe mental criticism, or making the awful discovery that I "had hands" and did not know what to do with them.
I did not tell you when my vacation should commence, because I did not know myself; indeed, I do not yet know. Our vacations generally commence about June, when each one in turn takes a couple or three weeks' travel and rest; but as I am the youngest and freshest (in the sense of inexperience) of the staff, I suppose I will have to wait my turn until the others have decided91. Some like to escape the hot weather. I love hot weather,—the hotter the better. I feel always like a lizard in the July sun; and when the juice of the poison plants is thickest and the venomous reptiles92 most active, then I, too, feel life most enjoyable, as "Elsie Venner" did. Therefore I may have to wait for my vacation till the golden autumn cometh; but I will endeavor to get away so soon as I can, and will let you know just so soon as I know myself.
Very respectfully yours, dear Lady,
Lafcadio Hearn
IX
Cincinnati, May 9, 1876
DEAR LADY: I am at once gratified and surprised to find that my little article should have given you so much pleasure. Had I not been very busy with a mass of matter-of-fact work last evening, I should have done better justice to Mr.——'s splendid collection. That was a very unfortunate mistake of mine in regard to his name, but I shall try to correct it.
In regard to mentioning Mr.——'s name,
I desire to say to you, in strict confidence, that I purposely omitted it for prudential reasons. Newspapers are very jealous of their employés in the matter of giving compliments; and I feared that further mention just at this time might render it all the more difficult for me to do you a reportorial kindness on some future occasion. This may seem odd; but one outside the newspaper circle can have no idea how particular newspaper proprietors94 are.
With regard to my article, dear Lady, I would say, in reply to your kind query95, that you are welcome to use it as you please. I only-regret the lack of time to have improved it before it appeared in the Commercial. My love for things Oriental need not surprise you, as I happen to be an Oriental by birth and half by blood.
I cannot definitely answer you in regard to the prospective75 country visit, so courteously96 proposed, until I see you again or hear from you. I fear I shall have to postpone97 the pleasure until the regular reporters' vacation time,—that is, if it should necessitate98 absence from duty for any considerable length of time. However, you can explain further when I again have the pleasure of seeing you; and if I can possibly get away, I will be only too glad of so pleasant a holiday.
Very respectfully and gratefully,
L. Hearn
X
Dear Lady: If I disappointed you last evening, be sure that I myself was much more disappointed, especially as I had to pass within a stone's throw of your house without going in. I believe that if you only knew how frightfully busy we all are, you would have postponed99 the invitation until next week, when I shall have some leisure and hope to see you. I had expected up to the last moment to be able to call, if only for an hour; but a sudden appointment put it out of my power. The convention is keeping us all as busy as men can be.
I see you returned my letter. I know it was not a satisfactory one. Somehow the ghosts of the letters I write by night laugh in my face by day. I either talk too freely or write too hurriedly. I will not certainly give your books away, for I prize them highly and am delighted with them. I had thought they were only lent. They now nestle on my book-shelf along with a copy of Balzac's "Contes Drolatiques," illustrated100 by Doré, Gautier's most Pre-Raphael and wickedest work, Swinburne, Edgar Poe, Rabelais, Aldrich, and some other odd books which form my library. I generally read a little before going to bed.
I hope to visit your farm indeed, but the journalist is a creature who sells himself for a salary. He is a slave to his master, and must await the course of events.
No; you must not pity me or feel sorry for me. What would you do if I were to write you some of my up-and-down experiences and absurdities101? And you cannot be of service to me except I were suddenly to lose everything and not know where to turn. Now I am doing very well, and would be doing better but for an escapade....
Of course I will write you in P—; I should like nothing better, feeling towards you like Prosper Mérimée to his "inconnue." I wish I could make my letters equally interesting.
I do not think that I am unfortunate in life, and yet I have done everything to make me so. If you only knew some of my follies102, you would cease perhaps to like me. Some day I will confide93 some of my oddities to you. But don't think me unfortunate because I am a skeptic103.
Skepticism is hereditary104 on my father's side. My mother, a Greek woman, was rather reverential; she believed in the Oriental Catholicism,—the Byzantine fashion of Christianity which produced such hideous106 madonnas and idiotic-looking saints in stained glass. I think being skeptical107 enables one to enjoy life better,—to live like the ancients without thought of the Shadow of Death. I was once a Catholic,—at least, my guardians108 tried to make me so, but only succeeded in making me dream of all priests as monsters and hypocrites, of nuns109 as goblins in black robes, of religion as epidemic110 insanity111, useful only in inculcating ethics112 in coarse minds by main force. Afterwards it often delighted me to force a controversy113 upon some priest, deny his basis of belief, and find him startled to discover that he could not attempt to establish it logically.
You say, "What else is there" but faith to make life pleasant? Why, the majority of things that faith despises. I fancy if one will only try to analyze114 the amount of comfort derived115 from Christianity by himself, he will find the candid116 answer. Whence come all our arts, our loves, our luxuries, our best literature, our sense of manhood to do and dare, our reverence117 or respect: for Woman, our sense of beauty, our sense of humanity? Never from Christianity. From the antique faiths, the dead civilizations, the lost Greece and Rome, the warrior-creed of Scandinavia, the Viking's manhood and reverence for woman,—his creator and goddess. Yet all faiths surely have their ends in shaping and perfecting this electrical machine of the human mind, and preparing the field of humanity for a wider harvest of future generations, long after the worms, fed from our own lives, have ceased to writhe118 about us, as the serpents writhe among the grinning masks of stone on the columns of Persepolis.
How you must be bored by so long a letter!
[The letter is signed by a drawing of the raven119, familiar in the letters to Mr. Watkin.]
XI
Dear Lady: There once lived an Eastern Sultan who reigned120 over a city fairer than far Samarcand. He dwelt in a gorgeous palace of the most bizarre and fantastically beautiful Saracenic design,—columns of chalcedony and gold-veined quartz121, of onyx and sardonyx, of porphyry and jasper, upheld fretted122 arches of a fashion lovelier than the arches of the Mosque123 of Cordova There were colonnades124 upon colonnades, domes125 rising above courts where silver fountains sang the songs of the Water-Spirit; here were minarets whose gilded126 crescents kissed the azure127 heaven; there were eunuchs, officers, executioners, viziers, odalisques, women graceful128 of form as undulating flame.
In a neighboring kingdom dwelt a sultry-eyed Sultana,—a daughter of sunrise, shaped of fire and snow, impulsive129, generous, and far more potent130 than the Sultan. Either desired to become the friend of the other, but either feared to cross the line of purple hills which separated the kingdom. But they held communication by messengers. The Sultana's messengers always spoke76 the truth, yet scarcely spoke plainly, having great faith in diplomatic suggestion rather than in blunt and forcible utterance131. The Sultan's messengers, on the other hand, only spoke half of the truth, being fearful lest their words should be overheard by the keen ears of men who desired that no courtesies should be exchanged between their mistress and her neighboring brother. At last the Sultana became wroth with a great wrath132 at the messengers, forasmuch as they conversed133 only in enigmas134, the Sultana being apparently135 quite unable to imagine why they should so speak. Therefore the Sultana bound the messengers, stripped them naked, and, placing them in bags, despatched them by a camel caravan136 to the Sultan, expressing much anger at the conduct of the messengers. The Sultan, being alarmed at the detention137 of his messengers, knowing their proverbial loquacity138, and fearing they had turned traitors139, thanked Allah for their return, and swore by the Beard of his Father that ere sunrise they should die the death of cravens, inasmuch as they had not fulfilled their duty satisfactorily. He decided that they should be burnt with fire, and their ashes cast into the waters of the great river—
"sweeping140 down
Past carven pillars, under tamarisk groves141
To where the broad sea sparkled."
"Kara-Mustapha," exclaimed the Sultan to his trusty vizier, "I desire the death of these dogs. May their fathers' graves be everlastingly142 defiled143! Let them be burnt even as we burn the bones of the unclean beast. Let them be consumed in the furnaces of thy kitchen, that my viands144 may partake of a sweeter flavor." And so they died.
Meanwhile the Sultana repented145 of her wrath against the messengers, and despatched a sable146 eunuch in all haste to save them. But the eunuch arrived before midday, while the prince was yet in his harem dreaming of satiny-skinned houris and the flowers of the valley of Nourjahad, the fruits of the golden-leaved vines of Paradise, and the honeyed lips of the daughters of the prophet, which make mad those who kiss them with the madness of furious love. And the prince, being aroused by his favorite odalisque, lifted up his eyes and beheld147 the eunuch there standing148 with a message from the Sultana. And reading the message he fell from the tapestried149 couch upon the floor, exclaiming, "May all the Ghouls devour150 my father's bones, and may they tear and devour me when next I visit my mother's grave! By the beard of Allah, those messengers are not; they have died the dog's death, and have vanished even as the smoke of a narghile vanisheth." And a soft wind from the sensuous151 rosy-skied South toyed and caressed152 the volatile153 dust of the bones of the messengers; the dust fructified154 flowers of intoxicating155 perfume, and the spirit of the messengers melted into the glory of Paradise. There is but one God—Mahomet is his prophet. [This is signed by a crescent and with L and H interwoven.]
XII
Dear Lady: I felt glad for divers156 reasons on receiving your letter and the little parcel,—firstly, because I felt that you were not very angry at my foolish fable; and secondly157, because I always feel happy on having something nice to read. I had already read considerable of Darwin's "Voyages;" but just now I happened to desire a work of just that kind in order to educate myself in regard to certain ethnological points. I accept Darwin fully.
I do not believe in God—neither god of Greece nor of Rome nor any other god. I do indeed revere105 Woman as the creator, and I respect—yes, I almost believe in—the graceful Hellenic anthropomorphism which worshipped feminine softness and serpentine158 fascination159 and intoxicating loveliness in the garb160 of Venus Anadyomene. Yes, I could almost worship Aphrodite arisen, were there another renaissance161 of the antique paganism; and I feel all through me the spirit of that exquisite162 idolatry expressed in Swinburne's ode to "Our Lady of Pain." But I do not believe in Christ or in Christianity,—the former is not a grand character in my eyes, even as a myth; the latter I abhor163 as antagonistic to art, to nature, to passion, and to justice. As Théophile Gautier wrote, "I have never gathered passionflowers on the rocks of Calvary; and the river which flows from the flank of the Cross, making a crimson164 girdle about the world, has never bathed me with its waves."
I always take good care of books, and will return these you have so kindly lent me in a week or two.
Dear Lady, I am very anxious to be able to write that I have a week's freedom or a fortnight's holiday; and I promise you to let you know as soon as possible. But as yet I cannot leave my dull office,—the convention keeps us awfully165 busy. I would see you very often were it possible; but I never have more than a few hours' leisure daily.
XIII
I have still your letter,—I fancied it might be asked for again, but I do not like to return it, dear Lady,—I had rather make a Gheber sacrifice, and immolate166 Eros, a smiling and willing victim, to the White Lord of Fire.
No, I did not think the Sultana wicked; for I hold naught167 in human action to be evil save that which brings sorrow or pain to others. But even suppose the Sultana wicked for the sake of argument: her pretty and yet needless apology for the supposed mischief168 done was so tender, delicate, and uniquely fantastic that it would have earned the pardons supplicated169 for by ten thousand such peccadilloes170. I could not forget it any more than I could forget the curves about the carved lips of the sweet Medicean Venus; it was a psychical171 blush of which the peculiar54 ruddiness made one long to see its twin.
This morning I found within my room a perfumed parcel, daintily odorous, containing diverse wonderful things, including a crystal vessel172 of remarkably173 peculiar design, very beautiful and very foreign. I thought of filling it with black volcanic174 wines, choleric175 and angry wine, in order to stimulate176 my resolution to the point of chiding177 the sender right severely. But the style of the vessel forbade; it was ruddily clear in the stained design, and icily brilliant elsewhere; it suggested the cold purity of a northern land,—fresh sea-breezes, fair hair, coolness of physical temperature. I concluded that nothing stronger than good brown ale would look at home therein; and this beverage178 provoketh good-nature.
I don't know how to reproach the author of this present properly. I shall not attempt it now. But I will certainly beg and entreat179 that I may not be favored with any more such kindnesses. I don't merit them, and feel the reverse of pleasant by accepting them. Why I don't know, but I never like to get presents some way or other. It is remarkably odd and pretty; so was the letter which accompanied it.
XIV
Dear Lady: Notwithstanding your threat to leave my letters unopened, I will venture to write you a few lines. I think that you have misjudged me; and while fancying that I was treating you unkindly, you actually treated me somewhat unfairly,—without, of course, intending it. You have acted throughout, or nearly so, upon sudden impulse, which was injudicious; and when you found me acting180 in the opposite extreme, the necessary lack of sympathy in our actions prompted you to believe that I was "heartless." Now I can fully sympathize with your impulsiveness181 because I have had similar impulses; but I have been forced to control such impulses by the caution learned of unpleasant experiences. I will run no risks that could involve you or me,—especially you. I did not for one instant (and you only asserted the contrary through a spirit of mischievous182 reproach) think that I could not trust you with my letters. But I could not trust the letters....
I did not accept your last invitation only because I could not: it was of all weeks the busiest. I did not visit your home yesterday, because I had an assignment at the same hour in the east end, for the purpose of examining a smoke-consumer. If you had written me the day before, I could have made proper arrangements to come. You must think me capable of a little meanness to suppose that I would be discourteous183 enough to desire a revanche for your impulsive expression of an impulse. I understand why you returned my letter, and I could not feel offended.
XV
Dear Lady: You must not ask me to forgive you, because I have nothing to forgive; and you must not speak of my being angry with you, because I was not angry with you at all. I wrote sharply, and perhaps disagreeably, because I felt that to do so would most speedily relieve you from your embarrassment184; and sympathized sufficiently with your error to suffer with you. I entered into your feelings much more thoroughly, I believe, than you had any idea of, and I only deferred185 writing last night because I was fairly tired out with hard work. I have made many mistakes similar to yours; and felt similar regrets; and felt my face burn as though pricked186 with ten thousand needles, even when lying in bed in the dark, to think that a friend had betrayed some tender little confidence which might be turned into sinister187 ridicule188. I was very, very sorry to feel that you had suffered similarly.
So, dear Lady, I feel generally very reluctant to unbosom myself on paper, not knowing who might behold189 the exposition, and sneer190 at it without being capable of understanding it. We all have two natures,—the one is our every-day garb of mannerism191; the other we strived to keep draped, like a snow-limbed statue of Psyche192, half guarded from un?sthetic eyes by a semi-diaphanous veil. This veiled nature is delicate as the wings of a butterfly, the gossamer193 web visible only when the sunlight catches it, or the frost-flowers on a window-pane. It will bear no rude touches—no careless handling. It is tenderer than the mythic blossom which bled when plucked, and its very tenderness enhances its capacity for suffering.
You may hear many things which on the impulse of the moment might affect you unpleasantly; but you need never yield to such an impulse. I am very well known in the city; and you might often hear people speak of me, but you must not think foolish things, or dream annoying dreams therefor....
What a funny little bundle of pretty contradictions your letter is! How can I answer it? By word of pen? No, not at all. I must only say that I like you quite as much—well, at least nearly as much—as you say that you wish. I won't say "quite," because I don't know myself, and how can I yet know you?
Ionikoe
XVI
Dear Lady,—I remember having once been severely chided by a hoary194 friend of mine—a white-bearded Mentor195—because I had just received a present from a friend, and had impulsively196 exclaimed, "Do tell me what I shall give him in return!" "Give in return!" quoth Mentor. "What for?—to destroy your little obligations of gratitude197?—to insult your friend by practically intimating that you believe he expected something in return? Don't send him anything save thanks." Well, I didn't. But when I received your exquisite little gift this morning, I thought of writing, "How can I return your kindness," &c.; and now, calling my old friend's advice to mind, I shall only say, "Thanks, dear Lady." Still, flowers and me [sic] have so little in common, that much as I love them, I feel I ought not to be near them,—just as one who loves a woman so passionately198 that his dearest wish is to kiss her footprints; or as Kingsley's Norseman, who threw himself at the feet of the fair-haired priestess, crying, "Trample199 on me! spit on me! I am not worthy to be trod upon by your feet." Of course this is an extravagant200 simile201; but the nature of a man is so coarse and rude compared with the fragrance202 and beauty of the flowers, that he feels in a purer atmosphere when they are breathing perfume about him. Flowers do seem to me like ghosts of maidens203, like "that maid whom Gwydion made by glamour204 out of flowers."
Just fancy!—I was smoking a very poor cigar when the basket of blossoms came up to my rooms; and the odor of tobacco in the presence of the flowers seemed sacrilegious. I felt like the toad205 in Edgar Fawcett's poem. Perhaps you do not know that little poem, as it has not yet been published in book form. So I will quote it; but do not think me sentimental206.
"To a Toad
"Blue dusk, that brings the dewy hours,
Brings thee, of graceless form in sooth,
Dark stumbler at the roots of flowers;
Flaccidy inert207, uncouth208.
"Right ill can human wonder guess
'Thy meaning or thy mission here,
Gray lump of mottled clamminess—
With that preposterous209 leer!
"But when I see thy dull bulk where
Luxurious210 roses bend and burny
Or some slim lily lifts to air
Her frail211 and fragrant212 urn,—
"Of these, among the garden ways,
So grim a watcher dost thou seem
That I, with meditative213 gaze
Look down on thee and dream
"Of thick-lipped slaves, with ebon skin,
That squat214 in hideous dumb repose215
And guard the drowsy216 ladies in
Their still seraglios"
And talking of little roses, luxurious roses, I like them because of the fancies they evoke217; their leaves and odor seem of kinship to the lips and the breath of a fair woman,—the lips of a woman humid with fresh kisses as the heart of the rose is humid with dews,—lips curled like the petals218 of the pink flower, recalling those of Swinburne's "Faustine"—
"Curled lips, long since half kissed away,
Still sweet and keen"
Dear lady, you sent me a very ?sthetic present; and I fear I have written you a very sentimental letter. But if you don't want such effusions, you must not send me such flowers. I received your last few lines, and feel much relieved to find I have not offended you by my foolish letter. I cannot sit down late at night without saying something outrageous219; and I must be possessed by the Devil of Heterophemy.
Very sincerely yours,
L. Hearn
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1
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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redounding
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| v.有助益( redound的现在分词 )；及于；报偿；报应 | |
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discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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19
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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21
impersonality
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| n.无人情味 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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reconciliations
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| 和解( reconciliation的名词复数 )； 一致； 勉强接受； （争吵等的）止息 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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28
platonic
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| adj.精神的；柏拉图（哲学）的 | |
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29
evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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31
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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33
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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34
batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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35
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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36
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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37
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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38
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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39
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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40
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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41
antagonistic
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| adj.敌对的 | |
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42
pompously
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| adv.傲慢地，盛大壮观地；大模大样 | |
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43
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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44
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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45
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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46
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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47
minarets
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| n.（清真寺旁由报告祈祷时刻的人使用的）光塔( minaret的名词复数 ) | |
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48
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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lizard
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| n.蜥蜴，壁虎 | |
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50
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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51
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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52
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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53
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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54
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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55
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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56
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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57
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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58
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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59
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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60
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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61
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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62
tardiness
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| n.缓慢；迟延；拖拉 | |
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63
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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64
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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65
shudders
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| n.颤动，打颤，战栗( shudder的名词复数 )v.战栗( shudder的第三人称单数 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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66
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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67
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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68
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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69
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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70
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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71
fatuity
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| n.愚蠢，愚昧 | |
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72
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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73
inordinately
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| adv.无度地，非常地 | |
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74
prospectively
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| adv.预期； 前瞻性； 潜在； 可能 | |
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75
prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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76
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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complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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79
ostracized
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| v.放逐( ostracize的过去式和过去分词 )；流放；摈弃；排斥 | |
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80
outlawed
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| 宣布…为不合法（outlaw的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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81
missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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82
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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83
radically
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| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
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84
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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85
ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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86
revering
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的现在分词 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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88
gauche
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| adj.笨拙的，粗鲁的 | |
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vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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90
scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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91
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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92
reptiles
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| n.爬行动物，爬虫( reptile的名词复数 ) | |
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93
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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95
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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96
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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97
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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necessitate
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| v.使成为必要，需要 | |
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99
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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100
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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101
absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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102
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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103
skeptic
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| n.怀疑者，怀疑论者，无神论者 | |
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104
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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105
revere
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| vt.尊崇，崇敬，敬畏 | |
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106
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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107
skeptical
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| adj.怀疑的，多疑的 | |
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108
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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109
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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110
epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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111
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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112
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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113
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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114
analyze
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| vt.分析，解析 (=analyse) | |
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115
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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116
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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117
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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118
writhe
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| vt.挣扎，痛苦地扭曲；vi.扭曲，翻腾，受苦；n.翻腾，苦恼 | |
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119
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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120
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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121
quartz
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| n.石英 | |
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122
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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123
mosque
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| n.清真寺 | |
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124
colonnades
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| n.石柱廊( colonnade的名词复数 ) | |
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125
domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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126
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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127
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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128
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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129
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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130
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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131
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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132
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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133
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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134
enigmas
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| n.难于理解的问题、人、物、情况等，奥秘( enigma的名词复数 ) | |
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135
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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136
caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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137
detention
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| n.滞留，停留；拘留，扣留；(教育)留下 | |
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138
loquacity
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| n.多话，饶舌 | |
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139
traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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140
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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141
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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142
everlastingly
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| 永久地，持久地 | |
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143
defiled
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| v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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144
viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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145
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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146
sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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147
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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148
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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149
tapestried
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| adj.饰挂绣帷的，织在绣帷上的v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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151
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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152
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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153
volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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154
fructified
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| v.结果实( fructify的过去式和过去分词 )；使结果实，使多产，使土地肥沃 | |
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155
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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156
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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157
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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158
serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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159
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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160
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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161
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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162
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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163
abhor
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| v.憎恶；痛恨 | |
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164
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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165
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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166
immolate
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| v.牺牲 | |
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167
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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168
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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169
supplicated
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| v.祈求，哀求，恳求( supplicate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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170
peccadilloes
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| n.轻罪，小过失( peccadillo的名词复数 ) | |
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171
psychical
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| adj.有关特异功能现象的；有关特异功能官能的；灵魂的；心灵的 | |
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172
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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173
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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174
volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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175
choleric
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| adj.易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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176
stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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177
chiding
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| v.责骂，责备( chide的现在分词 ) | |
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178
beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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179
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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180
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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181
impulsiveness
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| n.冲动 | |
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182
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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183
discourteous
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| adj.不恭的，不敬的 | |
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184
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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185
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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186
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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187
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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188
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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189
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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190
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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191
mannerism
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| n.特殊习惯，怪癖 | |
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192
psyche
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| n.精神；灵魂 | |
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193
gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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194
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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195
mentor
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| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
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196
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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197
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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198
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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199
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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200
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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201
simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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202
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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203
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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204
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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205
toad
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆 | |
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206
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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207
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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208
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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209
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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210
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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211
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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212
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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213
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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214
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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215
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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216
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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217
evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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218
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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219
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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