‘My dear Le Breton, your taste, like good wine, improves with age,’ answered Berkeley, coldly. ‘There are many reasons, any one of which may easily induce a sensible man to go into the Church. For example, he may feel a disinterested2 desire to minister to the souls of his poorer neighbours; or he may be first cousin to a bishop3; or he may be attracted by an ancient and honourable4 national institution; or he may possess a marked inclination5 for albs and chasubles; or he may reflect upon the distinct social advantages of a good living; or he may have nothing else in particular to do; or he may simply desire to rouse the impertinent curiosity of all the indolent quidnuncs of his acquaintance, without the remotest intention of ever gratifying their underbred Paul Pry7 proclivities8.’
Herbert Le Breton winced9 a little—he felt he had fairly laid himself open to this unmitigated rebuff—but he did not retire immediately from his untenable position. ‘I suppose,’ he said quietly, ‘there are still people who really do take a practical interest in other people’s souls—my brother Ronald does for one—but the idea is positively10 too ridiculous. Whenever I read any argument upon immortality11 it always seems to me remarkably12 cogent13, if the souls in question were your soul and my soul; but just consider the transparent14 absurdity15 of supposing that every Hodge Chawbacon, and every rheumatic old Betty Martin, has got a soul, too, that must go on enduring for all eternity16! The notion’s absolutely ludicrous. What an infinite monotony of existence for the poor old creatures to endure for ever—being bored by their own inane17 personalities18 for a million aeons! It’s simply appalling19 to think of!’
But Berkeley wasn’t going to be drawn20 into a theological discussion—that was a field which he always sedulously21 and successfully avoided. ‘The immortality of the soul,’ he said quietly, ‘is a Platonic22 dogma too frequently confounded, even by moderately instructed persons like yourself, Le Breton, with the Church’s very different doctrine23 of the resurrection of the body. Upon this latter subject, my dear fellow, about which you don’t seem to be quite clear or perfectly24 sound in your views, you’ll find some excellent remarks in Bishop Pearson on the Creed—a valuable work which I had the pleasure of studying intimately for my ordination25 examination.’
‘Really, Berkeley, you’re the most incomprehensible and mysterious person I ever met in my whole lifetime!’ said Herbert, dryly. ‘I believe you take a positive delight in deceiving and mystifying one. Do you seriously mean to tell me you feel any interest at the present time of day in books written by bishops26?’
‘A modern bishop,’ Berkeley answered calmly, ‘is an unpicturesque but otherwise estimable member of a very distinguished27 ecclesiastical order, who ought not lightly to be brought into ridicule28 by lewd29 or lay persons. On that ground, I have always been in favour myself of gradually reforming his hat, his apron30, and even his gaiters, which doubtless serve to render him at least conspicuous31 if not positively absurd in the irreverent eyes of a ribald generation. But as to criticising his literary or theological productions, my dear fellow, that would be conduct eminently32 unbecoming in a simple curate, and savouring of insubordination even in the person of an elderly archdeacon. I decline, therefore, to discuss the subject, especially with a layman33 on whose orthodoxy I have painful doubts.—Where’s Oswald? Is he up yet?’
‘No; he’s down in Devonshire, my brother Ernest writes me.’
‘What, at Dunbude? What’s Oswald doing there?’
‘Oh dear no; not at Dunbude: the peerage hasn’t yet adopted him—at a place called Calcombe Pomeroy, where it seems he lives. Ernest has gone down there from Exmoor for a fortnight’s holiday. You remember, Oswald has a pretty sister—I met her here in your rooms last October, in fact—and I apprehend34 she may possibly form a measurable portion of the local attractions. A pretty face goes a long way with some people.’
Berkeley drew a deep breath, and looked uneasily out of the window. This was dangerous news, indeed! What, little Miss Butterfly, has the boy with the gauze net caught sight of you already? Will he trap you and imprison35 you so soon in his little gilded36 matrimonial cage, enticing37 you thereinto with soft words and, sugared compliments to suit your dainty, delicate palate? and must I, who have meant to chase you for the chief ornament38 of my own small cabinet, be only in time to see you pinioned39 and cabined in your white lace veils and other pretty disguised entanglements40, for his special and particular delectation? This must be looked into, Miss Butterfly; this must be prevented. Off to Calcombe Pomeroy, then, or other parts unknown, this very next to-morrow; and let us fight out the possession of little Miss Butterfly with our two gauze nets in opposition—mine tricked as prettily41 as I can trick it with tags and ends of art-allurements and hummed to in a delicate tune—before this interloping anticipating Le Breton has had time to secure you absolutely for himself. Too austere42 for you, little Miss Butterfly; good in his way, and kindly43 meaning, but too austere. Better come and sun yourself in the modest wee palace of art that I mean to build myself some day in some green, sunny, sloping valley, where your flittings will not be rudely disturbed by breath of poverty, nor your pretty feathery wings ruthlessly clipped with a pair of doctrinaire44, ethico-socialistic scissors. To Calcombe, then, to Calcombe—and not a day’s delay before I get there. So much of thought, in his own quaint6 indefinite fashion, flitted like lightning through Arthur Berkeley’s perturbed45 mind, as he stood gazing wistfully for one second out of his pretty latticed creeper-clad window. Then he remembered himself quickly with a short little sigh, and turned to answer Herbert Le Breton’s last half-sneering innuendo46.
‘Something more than a pretty face merely,’ he said, surveying Herbert coldly from head to foot; ‘a heart too, and a mind, for all her flitting, not wholly unfurnished with good, sensible, solid mahogany English furniture. You may be sure Harry48 Oswald’s sister isn’t likely to be wanting in wits, at any rate.’
‘Oswald’s a curious fellow,’ Herbert went on, changing the venue49, as he always did when he saw Berkeley was really in earnest; ‘he’s very clever, certainly, but he can never outlive his bourgeois50 origin. The smell of tea sticks about him somehow to the end of the chapter. Don’t you know, Berkeley, there are some fellows whose clothes seem to have been born with them, they fit so perfectly and impede51 their movement so little; while there are other fellows whose clothes look at once as if they’d been made for them by a highly respectable but imperfectly successful tailor. That’s just what I always think about Harry Oswald in the matter of culture. He’s got a great deal of culture, the very best culture, from the very best shop—Oxford, in fact—dressed himself up in the finest suit of clothes from the most fashionable mental tailor; but it doesn’t seem to fit him naturally. He moves about in it uneasily, like a man unaccustomed to be clothed by a good workman. He looks in his mental upholstery like a greengrocer in evening dress. Now there’s all the difference in the world between that sort of put-on culture and culture in the grain, isn’t there? You may train up a grocer’s son to read Dante, and to play Mendelssohn’s Lieder, and to admire Fra Angelico; but you can’t train him up to wear these things lightly and gracefully52 upon him as you and I do, who come by them naturally. WE are born to the sphere; HE rises to it.’
‘You think so, Le Breton?’ asked the curate with a quiet and suppressed smile, as he thought silently of the placid53 old shoemaker.
‘Think so! my dear fellow, I’m sure of it. I can spot a man of birth from a man of mere47 exterior54 polish any day, anywhere. Talk as much nonsense as you like about all men being born free and equal—they’re not. They’re born with natural inequalities in their very nerve and muscle. When I was an undergraduate, I startled one of the tutors of that time by beginning my English essay once, “All men are by nature born free and unequal.” I stick to it still; it’s the truth. They say it takes three generations to make a gentleman; nonsense utterly55; it takes at least a dozen. You can’t work out the common fibre in such a ridiculous hurry. That results as a simple piece of deductive reasoning from all modern theories of heredity and variation.’
‘I agree with you in part, Le Breton,’ the parson said, eyeing him closely; ‘in part but not altogether. What you say about Oswald’s very largely true. His culture sits upon him like a suit made to order, not like a skin in which he was born. But don’t you think that’s due more to the individual man than to the class he happens to belong to? It seems to me there are other men who come from the same class as Oswald, or even from lower classes, but whose culture is just as much ingrained as, say, my dear fellow, yours is. They were born, no doubt, of naturally cultivated parents. And that’s how your rule about the dozen generations that go to make a gentleman comes really true. I believe myself it takes a good many generations; but then none of them need have been gentlemen, in the ordinary sense of the word, before him. A gentleman, if I’m to use the expression as implying the good qualities conventionally supposed to be associated with it, a gentleman may be the final outcome and efflorescence of many past generations of quiet, unobtrusive, working-man culture—don’t you think so?’
Herbert Le Breton smiled incredulously. ‘I don’t know that I do, quite,’ he answered languidly. ‘I confess I attach more importance than you do to the mere question of race and family. A thoroughbred differs from a cart-horse, and a greyhound from a vulgar mongrel, in mind and character as well as in body. Oswald seems to me in all essentials a bourgeois at heart even now.’
‘But remember,’ Berkeley said, rather warmly for him, ‘the bourgeois class in England is just the class which must necessarily find it hardest to throw off the ingrained traces of its early origin. It has intermarried for a long time—long enough to have produced a distinct racial type like those you speak of among dogs and horses—the Philistine56 type, in fact—and when it tries to emerge, it must necessarily fight hard against the innate57 Philistinism of which it is conscious in its own constitution. No class has had its inequality with others, its natural inferiority, so constantly and cruelly thrust in its face; certainly the working-man has not. The working-man who makes efforts to improve himself is encouraged; the working-man who rises is taken by the hand; the working-man, whatever he does, is never sneered58 at. But it’s very different with the shopkeeper. Naturally a little prone59 to servility—that comes from the very necessities of the situation—and laudably anxious to attain60 the level of those he considers his superiors, he gets laughed at on every hand. Being the next class below society, society is always engaged in trying to keep him out and keep him down. On the other hand, he naturally forms his ideal of what is fine and worth imitating from the example of the class above him; and therefore, considering what that class is, he has unworthy aims and snobbish62 desires. Either in his own person, or in the persons of his near relations, the wholesale63 merchant and the manufacturer—all bourgeois alike—he supplies the mass of nouveaux riches who are the pet laughing-stock of all our playwrights64, and novelists, and comic papers. So the bourgeois who really knows he has something in him, like Harry Oswald, feels from the beginning painfully conscious of the instability of his position, and of the fact that men like you are cutting jokes behind his back about the smell of tea that still clings to him. That’s a horrible drag to hold a man back—the sense that he must always be criticised as one of his own class—and that a class with many recognised failings. It makes him self-conscious, and I believe self-consciousness is really at the root of that slight social awkwardness you think you notice in Harry Oswald. A working-man’s son need never feel that. I feel sure there are working-men’s sons who go through the world as gentlemen mixing with gentlemen, and never give the matter of their birth one moment’s serious consideration. Their position never troubles them, and it never need trouble them. Put it to yourself, now, Le Breton. Suppose I were to tell you my father was a working shoemaker, for example, or a working carpenter, you’d never think anything more about it; but if I were to tell you he was a grocer, or a baker65, or a confectioner, or an ironmonger, you’d feel a certain indefinable class barrier set up between us two immediately and ever after. Isn’t it so, now?’
‘Perhaps it is,’ Herbert answered dubitatively. ‘But as he’s probably neither the one nor the other, the hypothesis isn’t worth seriously discussing. I must go off now; I’ve got a lecture at twelve. Good-bye. Don’t forget the tickets for Thursday’s concert.’
Arthur Berkeley looked after him with a contemptuous smile. ‘The outcome of a race himself,’ he thought, ‘and not the best side of that race either. I was half tempted66, in the heat of argument, to blurt67 out to him the whole truth about the dear gentle old Progenitor68; but I’m glad I didn’t now. After all, it’s no use to cast your pearls before swine. For Herbert’s essentially69 a pig—a selfish self-centred pig; no doubt a very refined and cultivated specimen70 of pigdom—the best breed; but still a most emphatic71 and consummate72 pig for all that. Not the same stuff in him that there is in Ernest—a fibre or two wanting somewhere. But I mustn’t praise Ernest—a rival! a rival! It’s war to the death between us two now, and no quarter. He’s a good fellow, and I like him dearly; but all’s fair in love and war; and I must go down to Calcombe to-morrow morning and forestall73 him immediately. Dear little Miss Butterfly, ‘tis for your sake; you shall not be pinched and cramped74 to suit the Procrustean75 measure of Ernest Le Breton’s communistic fancies. You shall fly free in the open air, and flash your bright silken wings, decked out bravely in scales of many hues76, not toned down to too sober and quaker-like a suit of drab and dove-colour. You were meant by nature for the sunshine and the summer; you shall not be worried and chilled and killed with doses of heterodox political economy and controversial ethics77. Better even a country rectory (though with a bad Late Perpendicular78 church), and flowers, and picnics, and lawn-tennis, and village small-talk, and the squire’s dinner-parties, than bread and cheese and virtuous79 poverty in a London lodging80 with Ernest Le Breton. Romance lives again. The beautiful maiden81 is about to be devoured82 by a goggle-eyed monster, labelled on the back “Experimental Socialism”; the red cross knight83 flies to her aid, and drives away the monster by his magic music. Lance in rest! lyre at side! third class railway ticket in pocket! A Berkeley to the rescue! and there you have it.’ And as he spoke84, he tilted85 with his pen at an imaginary dragon supposed to be seated in the crimson86 rocking-chair by the wainscotted fireplace.
‘Yes, I must certainly go down to Calcombe. No use putting it off any longer. I’ve arranged to go next summer to London, to keep house for the dear old Progenitor; the music is getting asked for, two requests for more this very morning; trade is looking up. I shall throw the curacy business overboard (what chance for modest merit that ISN’T first cousin to a Bishop in the Church as at present constituted?) and take to composing entirely87 for a livelihood88. I wouldn’t ask Miss Butterfly before, because I didn’t wish to tie her pretty wings prematurely89; but a rival! that’s quite a different matter. What right has he to go poaching on my preserves, I should like to know, and trying to catch the little gold fish I want to entice90 for my own private and particular fish-pond! An interloper, to be turned out unmercifully. So off to Calcombe, and that quickly.’
He sat down to his desk, and taking out some sheets of blank music-paper, began writing down the score of a little song at which he had been working. So he continued till lunch-time, and then, turning to the table when the scout91 called him, took his solitary92 lunch of bread and butter, with a volume of Petrarch set open before him as he eat. He was lazily Englishing the soft lines of the original into such verse as suited his fastidious ear, when the scout came in suddenly once more, bringing in his hand the mid-day letters. One of them bore the Calcombe postmark. ‘Strange,’ Berkeley said to himself; ‘at the very moment when I was thinking of going there. An invitation perhaps; the age of miracles is not yet past—don’t they see spirits in a conjuror’s room in Regent Street?—from Oswald, too; by Jove, it must be an invitation.’ And he ran his eye down the page rapidly, to see if there was any mention of little Miss Butterfly. Yes; there was her name on the second sheet; what could her brother have to say to him about her?
‘We have Ernest Le Breton down here now,’ Oswald wrote, ‘on a holiday from the Exmoors’, and you may be surprised to hear that I shall probably have him sooner or later for a brother-in-law. He has proposed to and been accepted by my sister Edith; and though it is likely, as things stand at present, to be a rather long engagement (for Le Breton has nothing to marry upon), we are all very much pleased about it here at Calcombe. He is just the exact man I should wish my sister to marry; so pleasant and good and clever, and so very well connected. Felicitate us, my dear Berkeley!’
Arthur Berkeley laid the letter down with a quiet sigh, and folded his hands despondently93 before him. He hadn’t seen very much of Edie, yet the disappointment was to him a very bitter one. It had been a pleasant day-dream, truly, and he was both to part with it so unexpectedly. ‘Poor little Miss Butterfly,’ he said to himself, tenderly and compassionately94; ‘poor, airy, flitting, bright-eyed little Miss Butterfly. I must give you up, must I, and Ernest Le Breton must take you for better, for worse, must he? La reyne le veult, it seems, and her word is law. I’m afraid he’s hardly the man to make you happy, little lady; kind-hearted, well-meaning, but too much in earnest, too much absorbed in his ideas of right for a world where right’s impossible, and every man for himself is the wretched sordid95 rule of existence. He will overshadow and darken your bright little life, I fear me; not intentionally—he couldn’t do that—but by his Quixotic fads96 and fancies; good fads, honest fads, but fads wholly impracticable in this jarring universe of clashing interests, where he who would swim must keep his own head steadily97 above water, and he who minds his neighbour must sink like lead to the unfathomable bottom. He will sink, I doubt not, poor little Miss Butterfly; he will sink inevitably98, and drag you down with him, down, down, down to immeasurable depths of poverty and despair. Oh, my poor little butterfly, I’m sorry for you, and sorry for myself. It was a pretty dream, and I loved it dearly. I had made you a queen in my fancy, and throned you in my heart, and now I have to dethrone you again, me miserable99, and have my poor lonely heart bare and queenless!’
The piano was open, and he went over to it instinctively100, strumming a few wild bars out of his own head, made up hastily on the spur of the moment. ‘No, not dethrone you,’ he went on, leaning back on the music-stool, and letting his hand wander aimlessly over the keys; ‘not dethrone you; I shall never, never be able to do that. Little Miss Butterfly, your image is stamped there too deep for dethronement, stamped there for ever, indelibly, ineffaceably, not to be washed out by tears or laughter. Ernest Le Breton may take you and keep you; you are his; you have chosen him, and you have chosen in most things not unwisely, for he’s a good fellow and true (let me be generous in the hour of disappointment even to the rival, the goggle-eyed impracticable dragon monstrosity), but you are mine, too, for I won’t give you up; I can’t give you up; I must live for you still, even if you know it not. Little woman, I will work for you and I will watch over you; I will be your earthly Providence101; I will try to extricate102 you from the quagmires103 into which the well-meaning, short-sighted dragon will infallibly lead you. Dear little bright soul, my heart aches for you; I know the trouble you are bringing upon yourself; but la reyne le veult, and it is not your humble104 servitor’s business to interfere105 with your royal pleasure. Still, you are mine, for I am yours; yours, body and soul; what else have I to live for? The dear old Progenitor can’t be with us many years longer; and when he is gone there will be nothing left me but to watch over little Miss Butterfly and her Don Quixote of a future husband. A man can’t work and slave and compose sonatas106 for himself alone—the idea’s disgusting, piggish, worthy61 only of Herbert Le Breton; I must do what I can for the little queen, and for her balloon-navigating Utopian Ernest. Thank heaven, no law prevents you from loving in your own heart the one woman whom you have once loved, no matter who may chance to marry her. Go, day-dream, fly, vanish, evaporate; the solid core remains107 still—my heart, and little Miss Butterfly. I have loved her once, and I shall love her, I shall love her for ever!’
He crumpled108 the letter up in his fingers, and flung it half angrily into the waste-paper basket, as though it were the embodied109 day-dream he was mentally apostrophising. It was sermon-day, and he had to write his discourse110 that very afternoon. A quaint idea seized him. ‘Aha,’ he said, almost gaily111, in his volatile112 irresponsible fashion, ‘I have my text ready; the hour brings it to me unsought; a quip, a quip! I shall preach on the Pool of Bethesda: “While I am coming, another steppeth down before me.” The verse seems as if it were made on purpose for me; what a pity nobody else will understand it!’ And he smiled quietly at the conceit113, as he got the scented114 sheets of sermon-paper out of his little sandalwood davenport. For Arthur Berkeley was one of those curiously compounded natures which can hardly ever be perfectly serious, and which can enjoy a quaintness115 or a neat literary allusion116 even at a moment of the bitterest personal disappointment. He could solace117 himself for a minute for the loss of Edie by choosing a text for his Sunday’s sermon with a prettily-turned epigram on his own position.
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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proclivities
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| n.倾向，癖性( proclivity的名词复数 ) | |
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winced
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positively
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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remarkably
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cogent
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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absurdity
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eternity
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inane
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personalities
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appalling
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drawn
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sedulously
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platonic
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doctrine
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perfectly
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ordination
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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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distinguished
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ridicule
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lewd
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apron
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conspicuous
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eminently
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layman
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apprehend
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imprison
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gilded
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enticing
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ornament
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pinioned
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entanglements
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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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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44
doctrinaire
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| adj.空论的 | |
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45
perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
innuendo
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| n.暗指，讽刺 | |
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47
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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48
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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venue
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| n.犯罪地点，审判地，管辖地，发生地点，集合地点 | |
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50
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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51
impede
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，阻止 | |
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52
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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53
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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54
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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56
philistine
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| n.庸俗的人；adj.市侩的，庸俗的 | |
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57
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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58
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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60
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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61
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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62
snobbish
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| adj.势利的，谄上欺下的 | |
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63
wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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playwrights
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| n.剧作家( playwright的名词复数 ) | |
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65
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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66
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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67
blurt
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| vt.突然说出，脱口说出 | |
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progenitor
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| n.祖先，先驱 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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forestall
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| vt.抢在…之前采取行动；预先阻止 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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procrustean
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| adj.强求一致的 | |
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76
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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80
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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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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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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83
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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84
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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85
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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86
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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entice
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| v.诱骗，引诱，怂恿 | |
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scout
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| n.童子军，侦察员；v.侦察，搜索 | |
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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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despondently
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| adv.沮丧地，意志消沉地 | |
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compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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fads
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| n.一时的流行，一时的风尚( fad的名词复数 ) | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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98
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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99
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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101
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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102
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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103
quagmires
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| n.沼泽地，泥潭( quagmire的名词复数 ) | |
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104
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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105
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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106
sonatas
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| n.奏鸣曲( sonata的名词复数 ) | |
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107
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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108
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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109
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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110
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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111
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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112
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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113
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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114
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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115
quaintness
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| n.离奇有趣，古怪的事物 | |
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116
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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117
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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