‘There’s a great deal to be said, Le Breton, in favour of October term,’ he observed, in his soft, musical voice, as he gazed pensively5 across the central grass-plot to the crimson6 drapery of the Founder’s Tower. ‘Just look at that magnificent Virginia creeper over there, now; just look at the way the red on it melts imperceptibly into Tyrian purple and cloth of gold! Isn’t that in itself argument enough to fling at Hartmann’s head, if he ventured to come here sprinkling about his heresies7, with his affected8 little spray-shooter, in the midst of a drowsy9 Oxford10 autumn? The Cardinal11 never saw Virginia creeper, I suppose; a man of his taste wouldn’t have been guilty of committing such a gross practical anachronism as that, any more than he would have smoked a cigarette before tobacco was invented; but if only he could have seen the October effect on that tower yonder, he’d have acknowledged that his own hat and robe were positively13 nowhere in the running, for colour, wouldn’t he?’
‘Well,’ answered Herbert, putting down the Venetian glass goblet14 he had been examining closely with due care into its niche15 in the over-mantel, ‘I’ve no doubt Wolsey had too much historical sense ever to step entirely16 out of his own century, like my brother Ernest, for instance; but I’ve never heard his opinion on the subject of colour-harmonies, and I should suspect it of having been distinctly tinged18 with nascent19 symptoms of renaissance20 vulgarity. This is a lovely bit of Venetian, really, Berkeley. How the dickens do you manage to pick up all these pretty things, I wonder? Why can’t I afford them, now?’
‘What a question for the endowed and established to put to a poor starving devil of a curate like me!’ said Berkeley lightly. ‘You, an incarnate21 sinecure22 and vested interest, a creature revelling23 in an unearned income of fabulous24 Oriental magnificence—I dare say, putting one thing with another, fully25 as much as five hundred a year—to ask me, the unbeneficed and insignificant26, with my wretched pittance27 of eighty pounds per annum and my three pass-men a term for classical mods, how I scrape together the few miserable28, hoarded29 ha’pence which I grudgingly30 invest in my pots and pipkins! I save them from my dinner, Mr. Bursar—I save them. If the Church only recognised modest merit as it ought to do!—if the bishops31 only listened with due attention to the sound and scholarly exegesis32 of my Sunday evening discourses33 at St. Fredegond’s!—then, indeed, I might be disposed to regard things through a more satisfied medium—the medium of a nice, fat, juicy country living. But for you, Le Breton—you, sir, a pluralist and a sanguisorb of the deepest dye—to reproach me with my Franciscan poverty—oh, it’s too cruel!’
‘I’m an abuse, I know,’ Herbert answered, smiling and waving his hand gracefully34. ‘I at once admit it. Abuses exist, unhappily; and while they continue do so, isn’t it better they should envisage35 themselves as me than as some other and probably less deserving fellow?’
‘No, it’s not, decidedly. I should much prefer that one of them envisaged36 itself as me.’
‘Ah, of course. From your own strictly37 subjective38 point of view that’s very natural. I also look at the question abstractly from the side of the empirical ego1, and correctly deduce a corresponding conclusion. Only then, you see, the terms of the minor39 premiss are luckily reversed.’
‘Well, my dear fellow,’ said the curate, ‘the fact about the tea-things is this. You eat up your income, devour40 your substance in riotous41 living; I prefer to feast my eyes and ears to my grosser senses. You dine at high table, and fare sumptuously42 every day; I take a commons of cold beef for lunch, and have tea off an egg and roll in my own rooms at seven. You drink St. Emilion or still hock; I drink water from the well or the cup that cheers but not obfuscates43. The difference goes to pay for the crockery. Do likewise, and with your untold44 wealth you might play Aunt Sally at Oriental blue, and take cock-shots with a boot-jack at hawthorn-pattern vases.’
‘At any rate, Berkeley, you always manage to get your money’s worth of amusement out of your money.’
‘Of course, because I lay myself out to do it. Buy a bottle of champagne45, drink it off, and there you have to show for your total permanent investment on the transaction the memory of a noisy evening and a headache the next morning. Buy a flute46, or a book of poems, or a little picture, or a Palissy platter, and you have something to turn to with delight and admiration47 for half a lifetime.’
‘Ah, but it isn’t everybody who can isolate48 himself so utterly49 from the workaday world and live so completely in his own little paradise of art as you can, my dear fellow. Non omnia possumus omnes. You seem to be always up in the aesthetic50 clouds, with your own music automatically laid on, and no need of cherubim or seraphim51 to chant continually for your gratification. Play me something of your own on your flute now, like a good fellow.’
‘No, I won’t; because the spirit doesn’t move me. It’s treachery to the divine gift to play when you don’t want to. Besides, what’s the use of playing before YOU when you’re not the dean of a musical cathedral? David was wiser; he played only before Saul, who had of course all the livings in his own gift, no doubt. I’ve got a new thing running in my head this very minute that you shall hear though, all the same, as soon as I’ve hammered it into shape—a sort of villanette in music, a little whiff of country freshness, suggested by the new ethereal acquisition, little Miss Butterfly. Have you seen Miss Butterfly yet?’
‘Not by that name, at any rate. Who is she?’
‘Oh, the name’s my own invention. Mademoiselle Volauvent, I mean—the little bit of whirligig thistledown from Devonshire, Oswald’s sister, you know, of Oriel.’
‘Ah, that one! Yes; just caught a glimpse of her in the High on Thursday. Very pretty, certainly, and as airy as a humming-bird.’
‘That’s her! She’s coming here to lunch this morning. If you’re a good boy, and will promise not to say anything naughty, you may stop and meet her. She’s a nice little thing, but rather timid at seeing so many fresh faces. You mustn’t frighten her by discussing the Absolute and the Unconditioned, or bore her by talking about Aristotle’s Politics, or the revolutions in Corcyra. For you know, my dear Le Breton, if you HAVE a fault, it is that you’re such a consummate52 and irrepressible prig; now aren’t you really?’
‘I’m hardly a fair judge on that subject, I suppose, Berkeley; but if YOU have a rudimentary glimmering53 of a virtue54, it is that you’re such a deliciously frank and yet considerate critic. I’ll pocket your rudeness though, and eat your lunch, in spite of it. Is Miss Butterfly, as you call her, as stand-off as her brother?’
‘Not at all. She’s accueillante to the last degree.’
‘Very restricted, I suppose—a country girl of the first water? Horizon absolutely bounded by the high hedges of her native parish?’
‘Oh dear no! Anything but that. She’s like her brother, naturally quick and adaptive.’
‘Oswald’s an excellent fellow in his way,’ said Herbert, button-holing his own waistcoat; ‘but he’s spoilt by two bad traits. In the first place, he’s so dreadfully conscious of the fact that he has risen from a lower position; and then, again, he’s so engrossingly55 and pervadingly mathematical. X square seems to have seized upon him bodily, and to have wormed its fatal way into his very marrow56.’
‘Ah, you must remember, he’s true to his first love. Culture came to him first, while yet he abode57 in Philistia, under the playful disguise of a conic section. He scaled his way out of Gath by means of a treatise58 on elementary trigonometry, and evaded59 Askelon on the wings of an undulatory theory of light. It is different with us, you know, who have emerged from the land of darkness by the regular classical and literary highway. We feed upon Rabelais and Burton; he flits carelessly from flower to flower of the theory of Quantics. If he were an idealist painter, like Rossetti, he would paint great allegorical pictures for us, representing an asymptotic curve appearing to him in a dream, and introducing that blushing maiden60, Hyperbola, to his affectionate consideration.’
As Berkeley spoke61, a rap sounded on the oak, and Ernest Le Breton entered the room.
‘What, you here, Herbert?’ he said with a shade of displeasure in his tone. ‘Are you, too, of the bidden?’
‘Berkeley has asked me to stop and lunch with him, if that’s what you mean.’
‘We shall be quite a party,’ said Ernest, seating himself, and looking abstractedly round the room. ‘Why, Berkeley,’ as his eye fell upon the Venetian vase, ‘you’ve positively got some more gew-gaws here. This one’s new, isn’t it? Eh!’
‘Yes. I picked it up for a song, this long, at a stranded62 village in the Apennines. Literally63 for a song, for it cost me just what I got from Fradelli for that last little piece of mine. It’s very pretty, isn’t it?’
‘Very; exquisite64, really; the blending of the tones is so perfect. I wish I knew what to think about these things. I can’t make up my mind about them. Sometimes I think it’s all right to make them and buy them; sometimes I think it’s all wrong.’
‘Oh, if that’s your difficulty,’ said Berkeley, pulling his white tie straight at the tiny round looking-glass, ‘I can easily reassure65 you. Do you think a hundred and eighty pounds a year an excessive sum for one person to spend upon his own entire living?’
‘It doesn’t seem so, as expenses go amongst US,’ said Ernest, seriously, ‘though I dare say it would look like shocking extravagance to a working man with a wife and family.’
‘Very well, that’s the very outside I ever spend upon myself in any one year, for the excellent reason that it’s all I ever get to spend in any way. Now, why shouldn’t I spend it on the things that please me best and are joys for ever, instead of on the things that disappear at once and perish in the using?’
‘Ah, but that’s not the whole question,’ Ernest answered, looking at the curate fixedly66. ‘What right have you and I to spend so much when others are wanting for bread? And what right have you or I to make other people work at producing these useless trinkets for our sole selfish gratification?’
‘Well now, Le Breton,’ said the parson, assuming a more serious tone, ‘you know you’re a reasonable creature, so I don’t mind discussing this question with you. You’ve got an ethical67 foundation to your nature, and you want to see things done on decent grounds of distributive justice. There I am one with you. But you’ve also got an aesthetic side to your nature, which makes you worth arguing with upon the matter. I won’t argue with your vulgar materialised socialist68, who would break up the frieze69 of the Parthenon for road metal, or pull down Giotto’s frescoes70 because they represent scenes in the fabulous lives of saints and martyrs71. You know what a work of art is when you see it; and therefore you’re worth arguing with, which your vulgar Continental72 socialist really isn’t. The one cogent73 argument for him is the whiff of grape-shot.’
‘I recognise,’ said Ernest, ‘that the works of art, of poetry, or of music, which we possess are a grand inheritance from the past; and I would do all I could to preserve them intact for those that come after us.’
‘I’m sure you would. No restoration or tinkering in you, I’m certain. Well, then, would you give anything for a world which hadn’t got this aesthetic side to its corporate74 existence? Would you give anything for a world which didn’t care at all for painting, sculpture, music, poetry? I wouldn’t. I don’t want such a world. I won’t countenance75 such a world. I’ll do nothing to further or advance such a world. It’s utterly repugnant to me, and I banish76 it, as Themistocles banished77 the Athenians.’
‘But consider,’ said Ernest, ‘we live in a world where men and women are actually starving. How can we reconcile to our consciences the spending of one penny on one useless thing when others are dying of sheer want, and cold, and nakedness? That’s the great question that’s always oppressing my poor dissatisfied conscience.’
‘So it does everybody’s—except Herbert’s: he explains it all on biological grounds as the beautiful discriminative78 action of natural selection. Simple, but not consolatory79. Still, look at the other side of the question. Suppose you and everybody else were to give up all superfluities, and confine all your energies to the unlimited80 production of bare necessaries. Suppose you occupy every acre of land with your corn-fields, or your piggeries; and sweep away all the parks, and woods, and heaths, and moorlands in England. Suppose you keep on letting your population multiply as fast as it chooses—and it WILL multiply, you know, in that ugly, reckless, anti-Malthusian fashion of its own—till every rood of ground maintains its man, and only just maintains him; and what will you have got then?’
‘A dead level of abject81 pauperism,’ put in Herbert blandly82; ‘a reductio ad absurdum of all your visionary Schurzian philosophy, my dear Ernest. Look at it another way, now, and just consider. Which really and truly matters most to you and me, a great work of art or a highly respectable horny-handed son of toil83, whose acquaintance we have never had the pleasure of personally making? Suppose you read in the Times that the respectable horny-handed one has fallen off a scaffolding and broken his neck; and that the Dresden Madonna has been burnt by an unexpected accident; which of the two items of intelligence affects you the most acutely? My dear fellow, you may push your humanitarian84 enthusiasm as far as ever you like; but in your heart of hearts you know as well as I do that you’ll deeply regret the loss of the Madonna, and you’ll never think again about the fate of the respectable horny-handed, his wife or children.’
Ernest’s answer, if he had any to make, was effectually nipped in the bud by the entrance of the scout85, who came in to announce Mr. and Miss Oswald and Mrs. Martindale. Edie wore the grey dress, her brother’s present, and flitted into the room after her joyous86 fashion, full of her first fresh delight at the cloistered87 quad of Magdalen.
‘What a delicious college, Mr. Berkeley!’ she said, holding out her hand to him brightly. ‘Good-morning, Mr. Le Breton; this is your brother, I know by the likeness88. I thought New College very beautiful, but nothing I’ve seen is quite as beautiful as Magdalen. What a privilege to live always in such a place! And what an exquisite view from your window here!’
‘Yes,’ said Berkeley, moving a few music-books from the seat in the window-sill; ‘come and sit by it, Miss Oswald. Mrs. Martindale, won’t you put your shawl down? How’s the Professor to-day? So sorry he couldn’t come.’
‘Ah, he had to go to sit on one of his Boards,’ said the old lady, seating herself. ‘But you know I’m quite accustomed to going out without him.’
Arthur Berkeley knew as much; indeed, being a person of minute strategical intellect, he had purposely looked out a day on which the Professor had to attend a meeting of the delegates of something or other, so as to secure Mrs. Martindale’s services without the supplementary89 drawback of that prodigious90 bore. Not that he was particularly anxious for Mrs. Martindale’s own society, which was of the most strictly negative character; but he didn’t wish Edie to be the one lady in a party of four men, and he invited the Professor’s wife as an excellent neutral figure-head, to keep her in countenance. Ladies were scarcer then in Oxford than they are nowadays. The married fellow was still a tentative problematical experiment in those years, and the invasion of the Parks by young couples had hardly yet begun in earnest. So female society was still at a considerable local premium91, and Berkeley was glad enough to secure even colourless old Mrs. Martindale to square his party at any price.
‘And how do you like Oxford, Miss Oswald?’ asked Ernest, making his way towards the window.
‘My dear Le Breton, what a question to put to her!’ said Berkeley, smiling. ‘As if Oxford were a place to be appraised92 offhand93, on three days’ acquaintance. You remind me of the American who went to look at Niagara, and made an approving note in his memorandum94 book to say that he found it really a very elegant cataract95.’
‘Oh, but you MUST form some opinion of it at least, at first sight,’ cried Edie; ‘you can’t help having an impression of a place from the first moment, even if you haven’t a judgment96 on it, can you now? I think it really surpasses my expectations, Mr. Le Breton, which is always a pleasant surprise. Venice fell below them; Florence just came up to them; but Oxford, I think, really surpasses them.’
‘We have three beautiful towns in Britain,’ Berkeley said. (‘As if he were a Welsh Triad,’ suggested Herbert Le Breton, parenthetically.) ‘Torquay, Oxford, Edinburgh. Torquay is all nature, spoilt by what I won’t call art; Oxford is all art, superimposed on a swamp that I won’t call nature; Edinburgh is both nature and art, working pretty harmoniously97 together, to make up a unique and exquisite picture.’
‘Just like Naples, Venice, and Heidelberg,’ said Edie, half to herself; but Berkeley caught at the words quickly as she said them. ‘Yes,’ he answered; ‘a very good parallel, only Oxford has a trifle more nature about it than Venice. The lagoon98, without the palaces, would be simply hideous99; the Oseney flats, without the colleges, would be nothing worse than merely dull.’
‘We owe a great deal,’ said Ernest, gazing out towards the quadrangle, ‘to the forgotten mass of labouring humanity who piled all those blocks of shapeless stone into beautiful forms for us who come after to admire and worship. I often wonder, when I sit here in Berkeley’s window-seat, and look across the quad to the carved pinnacles100 on the Founder’s Tower there, whether any of us can ever hope to leave behind to our successors any legacy101 at all comparable to the one left us by those nameless old mediaeval masons. It’s a very saddening thought that we for whom all these beautiful things have been put together—we whom labouring humanity has pampered102 and petted from our cradles upward, feeding us on its whitest bread, and toiling103 for us with all its weary sinews—that we probably will never do anything at all for it and for the world in return, but will simply eat our way through life aimlessly, and die forgotten in the end like the beasts that perish. It ought to make us, as a class, terribly ashamed of our own utter and abject inutility.’
Edie looked at him with a sort of hushed surprise; she was accustomed to hear Harry104 talk radical105 talk enough after his own fashion, but radicalism106 of this particular pensive4 tinge17 she was not accustomed to. It interested her, and made her wonder what sort of man Mr. Le Breton might really be.
‘Well, you know, Mr. Le Breton,’ said old Mrs. Martindale, complacently107, ‘we must remember that Providence108 has wisely ordained110 that we shouldn’t all of us be masons or carpenters. Some of us are clergymen, now, and look what a useful, valuable life a clergyman’s is, after all, isn’t it, Mr. Berkeley?’ Berkeley smiled a faint smile of amusement, but said nothing. ‘Others are squires111 and landed gentry112; and I’m sure the landed gentry are very desirable in keeping up the tone of the country districts, and setting a pattern of virtue and refinement113 to their poorer neighbours. What would the country villages be, for example, if it weren’t for the centres of culture afforded by the rectory and the hall, eh, Miss Oswald.’ Edith thought of quavering old Miss Catherine Luttrell gossiping with the rector’s wife, and held her peace. ‘You may depend upon it Providence has ordained these distinctions of classes for its own wise purposes, and we needn’t trouble our heads at all about trying to alter them.’
‘I’ve always observed,’ said Harry Oswald, ‘that Providence is supposed to have ordained the existing order for the time being, whatever it may be, but not the order that is at that exact moment endeavouring to supplant114 it. If I were to visit Central Africa, I should confidently expect to be told by the rain-doctors that Providence had ordained the absolute power of the chief, and the custom of massacring his wives and slaves at his open grave side. I believe in Russia it’s usually allowed that Providence has placed the orthodox Czar at the head of the nation, and that any attempt to obtain a constitution from him is simply flat rebellion and flying in the face of Providence. In England we had a King John once, and we extracted a constitution out of him and sundry115 other kings by main force; and here, it’s acquiescence116 in the present limited aristocratic government that makes up obedience117 to the Providential arrangement of things apparently118. But how about America? eh, Mrs. Martindale? Did Providence ordain109 that George Washington was to rebel against his most sacred majesty119 King George III., or did it not? And did it ordain that George Washington was to knock his most sacred majesty’s troops into a cocked hat, or did it not? And did it ordain that Abraham Lincoln was to free the slaves, or did it not? What I want to know is this: can it be said that Providence has ordained every class distinction in the whole world, from Dahomey to San Francisco? And has it ordained every Government, past and present, from the Chinese Empire to the French Convention? Did it ordain, for example, the revolution of ‘89? That’s the question I should like to have answered.’
‘Dear me, Mr. Oswald,’ said the old lady meekly120, taken aback by Harry’s voluble vehemence121: ‘I suppose Providence permits some things and ordains122 others.’
‘And does it permit American democracy or ordain it?’ asked the merciless Harry.
‘Don’t you see, Mrs. Martindale,’ put in Berkeley, coming gently to her rescue, ‘your principle amounts in effect to saying that whatever is, is right.’
‘Exactly,’ said the old lady, forgetting at once all about Dahomey or the Convention, and coming back mentally to her squires and rectors. ‘The existing order is wisely arranged by Providence, and we mustn’t try to set ourselves up against it.’
‘But if whatever is, is right,’ Edie said, laughing, ‘then Mr. Le Breton’s socialism must be right too, you see, because it exists in him no doubt for some wise purpose of Providence; and if he and those who think with him can succeed in changing things generally according to their own pattern, then the new system that they introduce will be the one that Providence has shown by the result to be the favoured one.’
‘In short,’ said Ernest, musingly123, ‘Mrs. Martindale’s principle sanctifies success. It’s the old theory of “treason never prospers124—what’s the reason? Because whene’er it prospers ‘tis not treason.” If we could only introduce a socialist republic, then it would be the reactionaries125 who would be setting themselves up against constituted authority, and so flying in the face of Providence.’
‘Fancy lecturing a recalcitrant126 archbishop and a remonstrant ci-devant duchess,’ cried Berkeley, lightly, ‘upon the moral guilt12 and religious sinfulness of rebellion against the constituted authority of a communist phalanstery. It would be simply charming. I can imagine myself composing a dignified127 exhortation128 to deliver to his grace, entirely compiled out of his own printed pastorals, on the duty of submission129 and the danger of harbouring an insubordinate spirit. Do make me chaplain-in-ordinary to your house of correction for irreclaimable aristocrats130, Le Breton, as soon as you once get your coming socialist republic fairly under way.’
‘Luncheon is on the table, sir,’ said the scout, breaking in unceremoniously upon their discussion.
If Arthur Berkeley lunched by himself upon a solitary131 commons of cold beef, he certainly did not treat his friends and guests in corresponding fashion. His little entertainment was of the daintiest and airiest character, so airy that, as Edie herself observed afterwards to Harry, it took away all the sense of meat and drink altogether, and left one only a pleased consciousness of full artistic132 gratification. Even Ernest, though he had his scruples133 about the aspic jelly, might eat the famous Magdalen chicken cutlets, his brother said, ‘with a distinct feeling of exalted134 gratitude135 to the arduous136 culinary evolution of collective humanity.’
‘Consider,’ said Herbert, balancing neatly a little pyramid of whip cream and apricot jam upon his fork, ‘consider what ages of slow endeavour must have gone to the development of such a complex mixture as this, Ernest, and thank your stars that you were born in this nineteenth century of Soyer and Francatelli, instead of being condemned137 to devour a Homeric feast with the unsophisticated aid of your own five fingers.’
‘But do tell me, Mr. Le Breton,’ asked Edie, with one of her pretty smiles, ‘what will this socialist republic of yours be like when it actually comes about? I’m dying to know all about it.’
‘Really, Miss Oswald,’ Ernest answered, in a half-embarrassed tone, ‘I don’t quite know how to reply to such a very wide and indefinite question. I haven’t got any cut-and-dried constitutional scheme of my own for reorganising the whole system of society, any distinct panacea138 to cure all the ills that collective flesh is heir to. I leave the details of the future order to your brother Harry. The thing that troubles me is not so much how to reform the world at large as how to shape one’s own individual course aright in the actual midst of it. As a single unit of the whole, I want rather guidance for my private conduct than a scheme for redressing139 the universal dislocation of things in general. It seems to me, every man’s first duty is to see that he himself is in the right attitude towards society, and afterwards he may proceed to enquire141 whether society is in the right attitude towards him and all its other members. But if we were all to begin by redressing ourselves, there would be nothing left to redress140, I imagine, when we turned to attack the second half of our problem. The great difficulty I myself experience is this, that I can’t discover any adequate social justification142 for my own personal existence. But I really oughtn’t to bore other people with my private embarrassments143 upon that head.’
‘You see,’ said Herbert Le Breton, carelessly, ‘my brother represents the ethical element in the socialist movement, Miss Oswald, while Harry represents the political element. Each is valuable in its way; but Oswald’s is the more practical. You can move great masses into demanding their rights; you can’t so easily move them into cordially recognising their duties. Hammer, hammer, hammer at the most obvious abuses; that’s the way all the political victories are finally won. If I were a radical at all, I should go with you, Oswald. But happily I’m not one; I prefer the calm philosophic144 attitude of perfectly145 objective neutrality.’
‘And if I were a radical,’ said Berkeley, with a tinge of sadness in his voice as he poured himself out a glass of hock, ‘I should go with Le Breton. But unfortunately I’m not one, Miss Oswald, I’m only a parson.’
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ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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quad
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pensive
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pensively
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crimson
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heresies
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affected
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drowsy
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Oxford
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cardinal
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guilt
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positively
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goblet
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niche
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entirely
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tinge
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tinged
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nascent
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renaissance
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incarnate
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revelling
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fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
grudgingly
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31
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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32
exegesis
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| n.注释，解释 | |
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33
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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34
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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35
envisage
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| v.想象，设想，展望，正视 | |
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36
envisaged
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| 想像，设想( envisage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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38
subjective
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| a.主观(上)的，个人的 | |
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39
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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40
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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41
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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42
sumptuously
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| 奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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43
obfuscates
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| v.使模糊，使混乱( obfuscate的第三人称单数 )；使糊涂 | |
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44
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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45
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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46
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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47
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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48
isolate
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| vt.使孤立，隔离 | |
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49
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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50
aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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51
seraphim
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| n.六翼天使(seraph的复数)；六翼天使( seraph的名词复数 ) | |
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52
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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53
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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54
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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55
engrossingly
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| 使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的 | |
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56
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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57
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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58
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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59
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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60
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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61
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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62
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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63
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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64
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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65
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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66
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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67
ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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68
socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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69
frieze
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| n.(墙上的)横饰带，雕带 | |
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70
frescoes
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| n.壁画( fresco的名词复数 )；温壁画技法，湿壁画 | |
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71
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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72
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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73
cogent
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| adj.强有力的，有说服力的 | |
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74
corporate
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| adj.共同的，全体的；公司的，企业的 | |
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75
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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76
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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77
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
discriminative
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| 有判别力 | |
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79
consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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80
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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81
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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82
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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83
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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84
humanitarian
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| n.人道主义者，博爱者，基督凡人论者 | |
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85
scout
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| n.童子军，侦察员；v.侦察，搜索 | |
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86
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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87
cloistered
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| adj.隐居的，躲开尘世纷争的v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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89
supplementary
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| adj.补充的，附加的 | |
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90
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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91
premium
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| n.加付款；赠品；adj.高级的；售价高的 | |
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92
appraised
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| v.估价( appraise的过去式和过去分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
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93
offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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94
memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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95
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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96
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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97
harmoniously
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| 和谐地，调和地 | |
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98
lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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99
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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100
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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101
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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102
pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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104
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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105
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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106
radicalism
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| n. 急进主义, 根本的改革主义 | |
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107
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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108
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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109
ordain
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| vi.颁发命令；vt.命令，授以圣职，注定，任命 | |
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110
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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111
squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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112
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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113
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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114
supplant
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| vt.排挤；取代 | |
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115
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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116
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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117
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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118
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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119
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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120
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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121
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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122
ordains
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的第三人称单数 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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123
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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124
prospers
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| v.成功，兴旺( prosper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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125
reactionaries
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| n.反动分子，反动派( reactionary的名词复数 ) | |
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126
recalcitrant
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| adj.倔强的 | |
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127
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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128
exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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129
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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130
aristocrats
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| n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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131
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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132
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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133
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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134
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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135
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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136
arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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137
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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138
panacea
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| n.万灵药；治百病的灵药 | |
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139
redressing
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| v.改正( redress的现在分词 )；重加权衡；恢复平衡 | |
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140
redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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141
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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142
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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143
embarrassments
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| n.尴尬( embarrassment的名词复数 )；难堪；局促不安；令人难堪或耻辱的事 | |
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144
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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145
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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