During a temporary absence of my parents from Leipsic I was for some months staying in the Magister's house; three flights of stairs brought one to his door. I usually bounded up those stairs with the elastic6 step that leads to a happy home, but to-day—a certain to-day that seems but yesterday—my tread was slow and diffident. How could I face the Magister, the man above all others whom I had treated with disrespect—I had libelled! What reception awaited me? Whether I took two steps at a time or one at half-time, the result was much the same; I got upstairs, rang the bell, and went in.
This is what had happened during the morning's lesson at the Thomas-Schule. The learned doctor was expounding7 the subtle meaning of some lines in Virgil's "?neid." I found that the top layer of the poet's meaning would do for me, but, as is the way with the erudite, Dr. Traumann went down very deep, backed by an army of commentators8; in fact so deep that I did not care to follow. So I took to a more congenial occupation, and, under the cover of a friendly desk, I began to compose what seemed to me an interesting subject. How long I was about it, I do not know. The Doctor had walked up and down dozens of times between the forms, when suddenly a hand reached behind the desk and quietly annexed9 and pocketed the composition. The hand was the Doctor's. He walked on quite unconcernedly, prodding10 and probing old Virgil's defunct11 thoughts as before. And all the while he had that wicked caricature of himself in his breast-pocket, and presently he would see it and read the legend that relegated12 him and the commentators to the Dantesque depths of their own seeking.
I was eating a green apple, to give myself courage, when the Magister came in. What would he say? How would he take it? Well—he took it just as if nothing had happened, and smiling pleasantly, he said, "Look here, Felix, I have got a splendid specimen13 to show you," and with that, he fumbled14 in his pocket and produced a small piece of quartz15. "I have got another piece, so you can have this for your collection."
"Oh, thank you, Herr Magister," I said; "I am sure you are too kind. I—I don't deserve it."
He cut me short with: "Not at all, my boy; we are just on a footing of exchange. 'Eine Hand w?scht die andere,' as the proverb says."
What has become of my minerals I don't know, but to this day I often think, soap in hand, of the proverb that says, "One hand washes the other." As for the caricature, he never said anything about it, but I know now he treasured it and loved me all the more for being a bad one.
If he was kind, she was still kinder; she, the Frau Magisterin. I had by this time got initiated16 into the mysteries of German usage as regards the participation17 of the wife in her husband's titular18 advantages. Without an effort I could address Frau Schmidt as Mrs. Lettercarrieress, or Frau Müller as Madame Chimneysweeperess. So the "Frau Magisterin" came quite naturally to me. She called me "Mein Lixchen," a tender variation on my name. In fact, tenderness prevailed between her and me from first to last, maternal19 on her side, filial on mine. She was under middle size and of slight build; her bright little eyes, beaming with benevolence20, attracted you so much that you saw but little else in her face. Everything was small about her. A tight-fitting cap hid the best part of her hair, and the plain dress without puffs21 or ruffles22, or any of the other digressions dictated23 by the fashions of the day, seemed to make everything else subordinate to the love-beaming eyes. She was then in the prime of life. When I last saw her she was an old lady of fourscore years, and her dear little face had become so very small, that, although I am sure I did not mean to be irreverent in my thoughts, I could not help being reminded of the immortal24 Cheshire cat, that vanished leaving naught25 behind but a smile. Time, I felt, might deal with her as is its wont26, contract here and pinch there, lay out in folds and wrinkles what were round and smooth surfaces; but that particular twinkle that goes straight to the heart, the smile of the eye, would ever remain intact.
The Magister and his wife were a truly happy and devoted28 couple, and closely wound around their hearts were Bella and Frida, their two daughters; one was about sixteen, the other fourteen, at the time I was staying with them, good girls and pretty, with brown hair inclined to curl on Bella's head, very smooth and Priscilla-like on Frida's. With a view to securing for them the best possible education under the maternal eye, classes had been formed at their home, and consequently a bevy30 of young girls came up and went down those three flights of stairs on certain days and at given hours. I was always interested in curious coincidences, and so, to bring them about, I frequently found myself in the way at the given hours. On such occasions I tried to look unconcerned, or surprised at the meeting, but unfortunately I was yet too honest and truthful31, so I signally failed and blushed like a girl. Not like those girls though; they didn't seem to blush, the little fiends. With the exception of just one, they tittered right over the banisters, whispered, and shook locks and dangled32 satchels33 until I was quite discomfited34. I suppose they thought it rich fun, for they knew, long before I was aware of it myself, that I was desperately35 in love with Helene. It was the tittering, I am sure, that finally put me on the track, and the whispering that opened my eyes to the blindness I was stricken with. That was one day when those rosy36, mischievous37, young amorettes must have said something particularly unkind to their sister, for she bounded past me and her tormentors, like a deer, to get rid of the lot of us. After this I felt an ever-growing desire to see Helene, but took a dislike to the staircase as a meeting-place.
About this time, as luck would have it, I came across her two brothers, fair chubby38 boys about my age. We struck up a sort of friendship, and I took care the sort should be improved upon, interested as I was in securing their good-will. It was, above all, important to get reliable information as to where and when she could be met out skating, and my new friends, I found, were particularly sympathetic and communicative when under the influence of a certain kind of "apfelkuchen," an open apple tart39, dispensed40 on most advantageous41 terms in the Barfussg?sschen. There the Frau Bakermistress often had to open for me a little shutter42 in a shutter and hand out, on a piece of newspaper, large segments of the Kuchen, bidding it God-speed with a parting jerk of the perforated tin sugar-box. Perhaps to show that there was no bribery43 or corruption44 in my standing45 treat, and, perhaps too, as one's appetite at the age of sixteen is rather stimulated46 than blunted by love, I took my fair share of the segments. These symposia47 led, in the most natural of ways, to our making appointments to meet on this or that frozen pond or river, and I was sure to be punctual, knowing as I did, from information received, that Helene would be there. More than once I skated along that narrow river, the Pleisse, for miles, pushing before me the "Stuhlschlitten," with its precious many-locked burden. Helene was comfortably ensconced in that elementary specimen of a sledge48, a sort of easy-chair on skates, and was wrapped up in furs and covers, every inch of her carefully protected, excepting her little nose and lips, which would get linked to her veil by cobweb threads of ice, as King Frost welcomed her cherished breath. And didn't his Majesty49 just rule supreme50 that year!
I may have been a fair example of a boy lover, but I fear a diary which I kept and have preserved goes far to prove that I was a most precocious—you might call it priggish—young meteorologist, making his observations with pedantic51 regularity52, morn, noon, and night, on thermometer and ombrometer, and publishing the results in his own name with the proud prefix53 of "Herr Gymnasiast." We often hear of exceptional winters, but the one I speak of beats the record. Siberian cold visited us all through January; on the 21st of that month I find noted54:
8 A.M. 12.M. 10.P. M.
-19.7 -14.2 -21.4 Réaumur;
equal to 35, 26, and 39 degrees Fahrenheit55 below freezing-point.
A bitter cruel time to many;—a very Godsend to hardy56 skaters. I was of the latter. Off with overcoat and on we went—left, right—left, right—in long curved lines, the sledge flying ahead on the frozen waters of that puny57 river that had swallowed up thousands of Napoleon's followers58 on their retreat after the lost battle of Leipsic. On we went till we landed on the very spot where one of the last decisive encounters took place, and there we, some dozens of us, fought bravely for an adequate supply of coffee and Kaffeekuchen (you know by this time that "Kuchen" means cake, and that it meant a good deal to us in those days). In the meanwhile the girls of our fancies had time to thaw59, and usually came in a melting mood to the little tables at which they would graciously accept the chivalrous60 attentions dear to the bread-and-butter Miss.
As for Helene, to be sure she was of the ripe age of seventeen, and I had a sort of feeling that she would expect me to speak to her parents if I had anything definite to say. Till then the indefinite would do, and she made it quite easy to me to say all I wanted in that deliciously tentative way that marks our first attempts at disguising our feelings, whilst we are burning to proclaim them. It was all smooth sailing as long as I only had to minister to her creature wants, and I got as far as—
"O Fr?ulein, you must come out every Sunday; I do hope you will."
But when I wanted to explain that this my wish was mainly owing to the fact that her hair started in most fascinating wavelets from her temples, there was a kind of barrier that arose to stop me, a halo that came in the way to form a magic circle into which I could not penetrate61. I wanted to say something about Helen of Troy, but I did not know what conclusion to draw from her history, and besides it would sound so foolish and priggish. So I said nothing about her, and by the time we got up to return home, I had not done much to improve the opportunity.
Our skates were once more firmly secured to our feet, and our young ladies comfortably settled in their Stuhlschlitten. We all started together, but soon we broke the ranks, each one taking his own time. I was in a mood to go ahead and struck out at full speed. In fact it was not long before I was dashing past another sledge at such a close-shaving pace that Helene gave a start and a little cry of "Ach, don't, Herr Felix, please don't." But I was reckless and only went at a madder pace. She was in my grip; I had her to myself right away from the other boys. How I triumphed over them all! What did they know about love? With them it was all giggling62 and window parade, and meeting on the Promenade63, and doffing64 caps, and then taking a short cut, to meet again and have another chance of capdoffing. To be sure I had done all that kind of thing myself, but I was much too full of the present to think of the past.
She was mine; I held her in my—or at least my sledge held her in its—arms; it was the most glorious consummation of my wishes. I had carried her off into some new atmosphere, that did all the propelling automatically, some new element where weight counted for nothing. So on I went. Danger! Nonsense, there was none. I had got my treasure well in hand. Never mind if she fancied there was danger and was nervous; all the better if she was right. Was not I there to save and to protect her?
Such a swing round to get out of the way of that lumbering65 skater, hanging on to a sledge with a woman and two children. No, I certainly wouldn't dig my heel into the ice and pull up.
"Ach, don't, please don't, Herr Felix," she cried; "I'm sure there'll be an accident."
"Don't be afraid, please don't, Fr?ulein Helene," I rejoined; "can't you trust yourself to me?"
"Oh yes, yes, but really, please, do stop, dear Herr Felix."
I slackened a little as I said, "Why do you always call me Herr? It does sound so formal."
"Well, isn't that the right thing?" she answered. "You only call children by their Christian66 names. Don't grown-up people always call one another Herr, or Frau, or Fr?ulein?"
"Not always; you don't call Julius, Herr Julius."
"To be sure not, you silly; who is Julius? He is only my cousin."
"That's just so unfair. He's a benighted67 ass5, who, I'll be bound, doesn't know the colour of your eyes, or which side the dimple is, and you treat him better than those who do—(a pause)—yes, who do—who do quite well."
"Oh, I hate my dimple; my brothers are always worrying me about it."
"I'll stop that, but you must drop the Herr."
"No, I certainly won't. Do you want to be a child?"
"No, Helene, you are the child and I am the man; that I will show you"——
And with that I started off again viciously.
"Ach, Herr Felix—no, I mean Felix, I didn't say I wouldn't."
Another diabolic spurt68 that made the sledge twist and quiver. She clutched its wooden sides for safety, and cried out to the young fiend behind:
"I never said I wouldn't, Felix; do please stop—Felix—dear Felix."
This time my heel went deep into the ice, grinding out its order to pull up. In a moment I was round to the front, on my knees to pick up one of the rugs that had got loose and was dragging. The footstool was half off, and poor Helene's little feet were exposed to the biting frost. They were just lumps of ice, and I felt very guilty, for it was all my zig-zagging and swinging about that had done it. "Wait a minute, I know what will warm them in no time. My fur gloves are the very thing."
And with that I popped one foot into each glove, and gave her the cord to hold that connected both, and that was usually slung69 round my neck.
"Oh, that is glorious!" she said, as the heat from my gloves, my heat, passed into her veins70. "You are too kind, dear Mr.... I mean, my dear Felix. But you will want them yourself. You must take them back."
"Nonsense," I answered, as I tightened71 the gloves round her feet and tucked her up with the rug that had kindly72 played truant73.
"But I am sure you will get your fingers frost-bitten."
"Not likely; you just look out they don't set the back of your sledge on fire."
And with that we started at a moderate pace. I was in no hurry to get home, and in fact we had to give the rest of the party time to come up with us.
Fancy having to sit down and prepare for to-morrow's mathematics and Virgil after that! This time I was one of the commentators, and marginal notes in the shape of initials and scribbled74 profiles got in where they shouldn't.
But on the whole I did not find that the new development interfered75 with my studies. It was rather the other way, for I felt it would be positively76 ignominious77 to be snubbed by a professor, a schoolmaster. I was filled with overweening self-confidence, and fired with ambition. The things I thought and planned! Just the things you would laugh at now that you know so much about love and love-making. You shouldn't laugh! Is not the boy's first budding love the very best bit of the Creator's work, the tenderest shoot He grafts78 on the old tree of life? Nature likes to hear her own voice as it comes truly and purely79 from the boy's lips, tired as she is of man's false vows80. The boy's heart holds the divine spark of love, the same that will light the flame of his later days, only it is minus the bacilli that threaten to creep in, sooner or later, and crowd it with doubt and disappointment, or poison it with selfishness and passion. Nature, consistent as she is, repeats her processes wherever she is at work. For a while the rosebud81 remains82 closed, and is safe; then it opens its unsuspecting leaves, and in walks a wary83 worm and says, "This is just the place for me." The snow falls white, even in grimy cities—how soon to mingle84 with soot85 and dirt! The world changes, but the fountain source of all things remains pure; we can return to it, recuperate86 and restore ourselves in its waters; there alone we may find the mythical87 baths that, in olden days, promised health and youth. Harking back, we shall hear voices that once touched us, and may yet guide us.
But whilst my aspirations88 were soaring higher and higher, the fates were taking me and my lady-love into their old meddlesome89 hands, and just shaping our course at the dictates90 of their irresponsible caprice.
A grand sledge-party had been organised for the following Sunday,—a big affair, with a band to start us and torches to light us home. It was a glorious prospect91, and I for one was duly excited. On Friday, at 10 P. M., I went as usual to take the reading of my thermometer. The mercury had risen by six degrees. I went out into the garden, consulted the wind and sniffed92 the air, and my meteorological soul was filled with the greatest misgivings93. I felt it, I knew it; nothing could save us. The thaw had set in; there would be no band, no torches, no Helene!
Such an opportunity I was never to have again. The river that had befriended me had lost its strength, and was no more to carry her or me; soon it would flow its natural course. Thoughts alone and words remained icebound, and my hopes sank below zero. Henceforth I should meet her only on terra firma, and—alas!—terra firma was not as friendly an element as aqua firma had been.
The first time I saw her was about three weeks after the "My dear Felix" day. She was walking with her mother along that beautiful promenade that encircles the old city of Leipsic. On her other side was a middle-aged95 man—he must have been at least twenty-five—and he—oh! I could see it at a glance—was all smiles, doing the amiable96. He was not like Julius; he knew which was the dimple side and had taken it.
To be sure I had to pull off my cap and salute97, what they call bow and grin; but I felt like a bird with clipped wings, a string tied to its leg and fastened to a bar of its cage.
After that I did not see her for a long time. I heard she had gone to Dresden on a visit to friends. Once or twice I met her brothers, but, although I quite intended to do so, I could not summon courage to ask them who was the middle-aged man; nor did they seem inclined to talk about him or about her. But the truth gradually leaked out. He was the acknowledged suitor. Soon the news came. They were engaged. She was going to Switzerland in the summer to meet his parents, and in the autumn they were to be married. It was true, then: Helene had preferred a man to a boy!
Once more I met her before she left. It was on the Neumarkt, close to the old Gewandhaus. I bowed stiffly and was passing on, for I had swallowed the poker98 of resentment99, but she stopped short and stroked my big dog Hector, and said to him: "You wish me all happiness, I am sure, don't you? We have been friends, and we shall always remain friends, shan't we?"
And as the dog didn't answer, I had to say, "Yes, Helene, always."
And then the poker began to lose substance, and gradually it melted away. But it was only gradually.
It is many years ago now, but I still adhere to my original proposition, "Helene was of a lovable type," and I am sure Leonardo da Vinci, if no one else, would say that I am right.
I must admit, though, that shortly after that interview on the Neumarkt, I became painfully aware that I was not as unhappy as I should have liked to be. This is such a world of compensations, and they do so flood in upon one in the spring-tide of life! Not that I at once met with any new and revised edition of Helene, handsomely bound; but true friendship came to heal the wound, and sisterly affection to take the place of love. Bella and Frida were my friends. Bella so restful and soul-soothing100, with her far-away look; Frida so sympathetic and affectionate. They did not say much about Helene, as it was an awkward subject to discuss, but through all their tact27 and reticence101 I could plainly see that they disapproved102 of Helene's conduct, and thought her worldly and heartless. At that time I was much with those kind sisters, but I soon after left the Magister's house to live under the paternal103 roof, my parents having returned to Leipsic after a prolonged absence. But there was constant and pleasant intercourse104 between the two families, and my friendship with Bella and Frida flowed on peacefully and serenely105, as if nothing could ever impede106 its progress through life.
All the while Time, in a quiet, unobtrusive way, was doing his wondrous107 work, taking the school-girls in hand and making young ladies of them. Pinafores had long since been relegated to the dust-hole or the paper-mills, but there were frumpy aprons108 to be exchanged for dainty ribbons, dresses to be elongated109, and something dangling110 or jingling111 to be added before the young ladies could be considered presentable in a ball-room. And Time had done just the right thing, not scamping the work, as he will sometimes, or hurrying it and putting in touches that would come so much better a little later. So the result was that the newly developed young ladies remained young girls still, natural and unsophisticated.
And the schoolboy was being transformed too. It was noticeable that the left-hand side of his right hand middle finger-nail now rarely showed the inroads of an inky pen; a looking-glass, too, had evidently been consulted in some important matters, and the hands were observed frequently to twist and twirl some imaginary growth on the upper lip.
There is more in the eagerness with which the youth welcomes the advent112 of a beard than is at first apparent; he feels intuitively that the time is approaching when that mobile feature, the mouth, may possibly want a little disguise. It is easier to control the eyes, where there is an emotion to conceal113, than the lips with their tell-tale quiver: they need protection. Bold indeed is the man who dares to shave, and reveal, say to a young and confiding114 wife, who has known him only with a beard, all that underlies115 the hirsute116 mask, thus laying bare his true nature, whatever that may be, good, bad, or indifferent. We may safely assume, I think, that under the beard she will find a man she does not know.
But all those considerations are, at best, after-thoughts. When my time came to twirl the first threads of my moustache, I suppose I did not feel anything intuitively, but greeted the badge of manliness117 with satisfaction. Then, to be sure, I was not going to be an actor, who wants every square inch of his face for his work, nor a priest who has nothing to conceal, nor a lawyer who is not worth his salt if he cannot conceal anything or everything. I was going to be an artist, and as such, I meant to look my part, at any rate as regards the beard.
My school-days had come to an end; some dreaded118 examinations were satisfactorily passed, and I sallied forth94, backed by a grandiloquent119 Latin document describing me as "F. S. M. Londiniensis," an "honest youth" who had never done anything "reprehensible," and who was now "omnino" worthy120 to be admitted to the higher universities.
Instead of accepting the advantages thus offered to me, I disposed of some of those old school-books I hated, and packed up others that I loved, in a green carpet-bag, which was adorned121 with a worsted-work presentment of a shepherdess tending her sheep under a very small tree. This bag was of a style much admired in the Fatherland of those days, and had been presented to me by a very dear friend. Another parting gift I much prized was a woollen comforter knitted by Bella's own hands. Thus equipped, I started for Paris. The Traumanns saw me off. They were characteristic in their parting words. The Magister said—
"Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas. Never look at things superficially, my boy, go deeper for the cause of things."
The Magisterin said—
"Remember, mine Lixchen, wear those woollen socks and keep your feet dry."
Bella said—
"You will write, won't you? I shall be so anxious to know all about—I mean something—about what you are doing."
Frida said—
"Ach, Felix, do see if you can't get me one of those lovely black cats they have in Paris."
What a change from Leipsic to Paris, from home to the unknown, supervision122 to independence! When I speak of Paris, it must be borne in mind that it is the Paris of 1850-51, not the one we evoke123 when we think of the Imperial capital of later days. It was the old city with its high houses and crooked124 streets, with its nooks and rookeries, suggestive of revolution and barricades125; not the Paris we know with its gloriously disciplined palaces, standing shoulder to shoulder, and with its splendid military avenues that can carry conviction in the straightest and most direct of lines from the mouth of the cannon126 to the heart of the canaille.
The first restaurant I went into—it was a "Marchand de vins, Traiteur"—I was addressed as "Citoyen," rather a startler for a newly imported Leipsic schoolboy; but those were the days of the Republic that had followed Louis Philippe's flight, and there was a great show of "Liberté, égalité', Fraternité," on walls, churches, and other public buildings; whilst, as far as I could see, everybody seemed to be just as anxious as before to be fraternally equal with his neighbour in the matter of taking liberties, and whilst Prince Louis Napoleon and his friends were looking round for a favourable127 opportunity to daub out the foolish words and replace them with a capital "N," protected by an imperial eagle with rather sharp claws.
The coup29 d'état came. I saw it all; first the soldiers bivouacking on the quais and in the streets, eating and drinking to their hearts' content; then the Prince President riding across the Place de la Concorde on a proudly prancing128 horse, followed at some distance by a brilliant staff of officers on more modestly prancing horses (according to the rules of etiquette), and I heard the troops shouting "Vive Napoleon! à bas la République!" and the crowd hooting129 "à bas Napoleon! Vive la République!" and saw the future emperor bowing impartially130 left and right, to the loyal and to the disloyal, and fulfilling his destiny with the imperturbable131 passiveness of the fatalist. He really looked the picture of Fate in the uniform of a General, and adorned with a moustache waxed to inordinate132 lengths and culminating in sharp points.
Then I was run in, not for shouting, but because I was with a friend who carried a stick with a lead-weighted knob. At the police-station they proceeded to "dresser procès verbal," as they call it, and we were temporarily released; that process, however, within the next few hours, got so mixed up with human blood, ashes, and brick-rubbish, for the station had been fired, that when I called a few days later there was no trace of it left. So I was never sent to Cayenne or any other penal133 settlement.
On the contrary, Prince Napoleon had saved France, and he could not do without me to consolidate134 it. Achille Fould was his Chancellor135 of the Exchequer136, his right hand, and as Madame Achille and her sister were old friends of my parents, and had been amongst the first to welcome me into this big world, it was but natural they should now take me in hand and wish to introduce me into their particular world. So wherever golden dust was to be thrown into the eyes of the pleasure-seeking Parisian, my presence was politely requested. On my side I accepted favours with princely condescension137, and got into the Tuileries, when there was a ball or a fête on, hours before other poor mortals of inferior clay. The coachman of our ministerial carriage holding a card with the injunction, "Laisser passer, s'il n'y a pas empèchement de force majeure," we had not to wait our turn in the interminable queue that stretched through Paris for miles. I might be dancing at the Tuileries one night in the same room with the Prince President, who would perhaps be walking a quadrille with the wife of the British ambassador, and the next night—there comes the other side of my life—I was accoutred in a blouse and a workman's cap, and was diving into the haunts of destitution138 and misery139, into those privileged places where unpoetical license141 reigns142 supreme. I learnt French argot143, the thieves' language, at the fountain-source, and studied political economy under Communists—some of them philosophers, some firebrands. All that, to be sure, I could not have done alone, but I had some trusty friends amongst my studio comrades who initiated me and taught me French, as according to them she should be spoke144. I had to learn a poetical140 effusion by heart of which I just recollect145 the two lines—
"Le jour viendra où le père éclairé
Donnera sa fille au for?at libéré."
One of the highest officials I met at the Tuileries, the type of a perfect gentleman, was the biggest scoundrel I ever came across; whilst on the other hand, the man who more than any other taught me to love humanity, was a scoundrel whom I met in a low wineshop in the Belleville quarter, the hotbed of irresponsible revolution.
Memories are rather troublesome friends to deal with. They will not form into line after the example of the Parisian queue, but crowd around the pen with the cry of "Laissez passer." One ought really to have one's little brains divided into thought-tight compartments146, so that one could turn on perfect gentlemen, biggest scoundrels, or would-be Emperors, without being flooded by the immortals147 of the Institute, or those gods of the day representing the arts and sciences, whom it was one's good fortune to have known. Some special bulkheads or barriers should be provided to restrain the lovely types of womanhood that memories evoke.
I have to get back to Bella and Frida, and tell of heavy clouds that arose to darken our path, and of how I came to draw a portrait that has left a lasting148 impression in my mind. So I will but cursorily149 mention that there were one or two of the above-named lovely types that commiserated150 the unlicked cub151, and set themselves the difficult task of raising him, if not to their level, to within measurable distance of it. It was rather an awkward position for the cub when one of them more than usually warm-hearted and liberal, foreshadowed the bestowal152 of a first prize if the unlicked one proved himself an apt pupil. Of this I said something in a letter to Bella, for I occasionally remembered that she had wished me to tell her "all about—I mean something about" what I was doing. I gave the incident in a diluted153 form, merely hinting that the lessons might be learnt in Paris, but could be better applied154 elsewhere. Yes! When I come to think of it, I am sure Bella was my guiding star, shedding a ray of light just when I particularly wanted it to show me the right way.
It was now more than a twelvemonth since I had gone to Paris, and the time was drawing near when, in accordance with the good old fashion, I should spend Christmas at home. Notwithstanding all the attractions of upper and lower Paris, I had been working hard, drawing from morning to night, and sometimes from night to morning. Those were the days when a humble155 student might still worship at the shrine156 of a Vandyke or a Rembrandt, when the war-cry, "Nous avons changé tout157 cela," had not yet sounded, and the Messiahs of modern art were not yet busy proclaiming their newly-found truth from the house-tops, and painting there, too, lest a particle of light should get lost. So I was still quite na?vely addicted158 to drawing portraits by lamplight, putting in deep shadows and deeper accents, and picking out high lights on the breadths of foreheads or the tips of noses.
At last I was in the train and we were approaching Leipsic. I was thinking of parents and friends, and as I mentally rehearsed our meeting and greeting, I am sure my lips moved unconsciously, and the subtle smile of anticipation159 must have played around them. It was 3.30 P. M., I had travelled forty-five hours, but at last the old familiar landmarks160 appeared. There was the row of poplars, the distant spire161. Out came the pocket-comb—a final touch, and in a few minutes I was in my mother's arms. She had come upon the chance of my arriving by that train; time-tables did not pretend to give much information in those days. It is a long while ago, but I well remember that particular meeting and embrace. The two separate parts of one whole were re-united and were being welded together. Words had to wait. When they came—it does seem absurd—they were the most trivial ones, and rushed out buzzing like froth from the bottle. "Where's the green carpet-bag?" "I've got the parcel;" "All right, here is my passport;" "And when did you leave? to be sure, you must be hungry, poor boy;" and so on, till home was reached, where other loving arms awaited me. As we sobered down, the froth was brushed aside, the right words came, and we drank deep draughts162 from the phial that contains the very essence of love.
My first visit was for the Traumanns. That tailor at the corner of the Passage d'Orléans in the Palais Royal—he is there still—had made me a waistcoat of blue velvet163, dotted with little yellow spots; it was of the very latest Paris fashion, and in it I went to make my call.
Once more a joyous164 meeting, a warm welcome. Herr Magister and the Frau Magisterin were just the same as I had left them. Frida had grown, but was little changed otherwise, just as bright and happy as ever; but Bella I could not see; she was not well. That was disappointing; I kept looking at her desk, just opposite me, with the glass inkstand on the right, and the little bust165 of Mendelssohn I had given her, on the left.
"Well, good-bye, Frida," I said at the door, "tell Bella she must be well by Friday; she's got to dance at least two waltzes and the cotillon with me."
Now dancing at the Tuileries is a very good thing in its way; elbowing a future emperor, and hobnobbing with a scoundrel disguised as a gentleman, are things to brag166 of. But it is nothing to having a dance at one's own home, with one's sisters, and one's sisters' friends, with one's friends and one's friends' sisters.
I was surprised to find several "Impériales" on the programme of our little dance, and was told that was the latest craze all over Paris. Now nothing of the kind had ever been heard of in the terpsichorean167 circles I had just left, so naturally I had no notion of what the step might be like. When I attempted it, however, it mattered little whether I danced it correctly or not, for, coming straight as I did from the French capital, I was supposed to know all about it; so the good Leipsickers soon adopted my rendering168, and my step became the fashion.
I wanted those two waltzes and the cotillon because Bella was the best dancer in Leipsic. She must have been born under the star of rhythm; some fairy must have beaten time with a magic wand, pronouncing a One-two-three, One-two-three blessing169 upon her. One would never have imagined that that reserved girl, with the far-away look, was the queen of the ballroom170; true, her figure was perfect, but it was not till she waltzed that its graceful3 and subtle lines revealed themselves. Curiously171 the far-away look never left her when dancing; she seemed to be undulating towards some distant goal, wherever that might be.
How few fairies there are to beat time at the baby's cradle! and is it not curious how seldom they go to the little boys? Dancing humanity has had to invent the valse à deux temps, that bids us close our ears to the strains of the syren, Strauss, and take two steps where there should be three. Perhaps there is some malignant172 fairy to visit the cradles of the little boys. One would think so, to judge by the expressions on the faces of many dancers, expressions varying from that of painful uneasiness to that of abject173 misery. Poor souls! Some rushing wildly to destruction, others doomed174 to crawl out their ballroom existence, gravitating within the narrow circle of the chandelier!
* * * * * *
Friday came, and the ball.
But I have nothing to tell about it. Bella was not there. No, Bella could not be there—she was ill.
Ill—then very ill—dangerously ill. Soon she was dead!
It all came so rapidly, it must be told rapidly, breathlessly.
When? How?—She died on Sunday night at eleven o'clock—It can't be true!—It was true.
How incredulous we are when first called upon to realise the truth! how slow to understand and believe that what was but yesterday a living form must be accounted dead to-day! Anguish175 rises rebellious176: It cannot be.—It is a dream, a grievous mistake, to be explained away presently. Love's giant strength would wrench177 its victim from death's grasp. Hope, the very last to yield—or is it but an after-glow of hope?—will catch at shadowy straws, ere it submits and sinks to rise no more.
None but the father, mother, and sister were at the bedside when the young life ebbed178 away. Poor tortured souls! May they be strong enough to bear the heavy trial. That night the father never shed a tear, nor the next day, nor the next. It would have been better had grief found a natural channel. He spoke but little, and mostly sat by the bed as if in deep thought, until they carried her away.
The white wreaths had come,—and the black hearse; and graceful lilies, their long stems bound together with white ribbons. Black crapes too, and sable179 hues180, to harmonise with a world of sorrow and darkness.
Then the blinds went up, and the world went on as before. I looked out of the window; I recollect a boy's cap had got cast adrift on the branch of a tree just opposite the house of sadness; a little crowd had collected to do justice to the incident. "Would it get off, or gradually perish where it hung?" was the question of paramount181 interest to that particular little world.
But does the world really go on as before? Not quite. A fraction of our globe has been disturbed, a balance lost. The blow that struck down one brother or sister wounds many hearts, reverberates182 in circles small or large, and it will take time to restore that fraction's equilibrium183. It is as when we break the peaceful surface of the water. First a thud, a gash184; next a circle, small, but broken and restless; then a larger one and a larger, each and all gradually calming down to be at rest, with the smooth untroubled waters beyond.
When a link in the chain of existences, near and dear to us, is snapped asunder185, we instinctively186 seek to close up the gap, to join hands and succour one another. So Frida's heart went out to her father as he sat brooding, with his eyes fixed187 on the desk with the little bust. It was not till much later that I knew what she had suffered. She wished to throw her arms round his neck and cry her little aching heart out, and love him with her dead sister's love and her own, and let him cry too, that love and sorrow could mingle. But he sat there, so forbidding, so strange, that her arms fell, and her tears flowed back to the aching heart. Then she went up to him and stood by his side. The word "father" quivered on her lips; she knew not why, but she dared not pronounce it. Her mother came in and stood waiting too, hoping he would turn round, but he did not move. "Dearest mine," she said, "speak to Frida."
He lifted his head slowly, as if it were a great weight, his lips moved with an effort, and looking vacantly at his poor love-seeking child, he said, "Never, never!"
Days passed, and melancholy188 settled deeper and deeper on the sufferer. He would occasionally show something of the old tenderness for his wife, and sometimes a spark of gratitude would for moments light up the darkness of his moods. But mostly he sat brooding, prostrate189, heart-stricken. If she spoke to him of Frida he would wave his hand as if to beg her to forbear, and would keep on repeating to himself the words, "Never, never!"
She had insisted one day; she had hoped to break the spell, when he rose angrily, he the mildest of men. "Never, never mention her name to me again," he said sternly, then, gradually recovering himself, he returned to his seat and relapsed into silence.
The well-known physician and psychologist, Dr. Reclam, was in daily attendance on the patient. He was an old friend of the Magister's, and put heart and soul into the task of restoring him to health. He had said, "No, she must not show herself for the present, it would be to no purpose; but you must not let a day pass without mentioning her name in some way or other; we must not allow the blight190 to settle upon him undisturbed." Soon he advised change of air and surroundings. So the Magister and his wife left for Sonnenthal, a place far away in the country, where a cousin of his owned a large farm. He had spent part of his childhood there, and it was hoped that early associations, and the soothing influence of some old trusted servants who would be around him, might go far to restore his mind to peace and rest.
Frida remained in Leipsic; she left the darkened home, and went to stay with an uncle, a well-known lawyer. He was a good man at heart, but one of those whose hearts lie so deeply hidden away that there is no getting at them. He had a boy we all hated; his heart-strings must have been hopelessly knotted and tangled191, or he would never have tortured that poor kitten as he did. With the assistance of his friend, the carpenter's son, he—But no, I will not tell, for I am firmly convinced that the very mention of evil begets192 evil. Such is man; moulded perhaps after the Divine image in some respects, he has in his composition quite as much of his brother beasts as of divinity. Curious lord of creation! As if there were not enough misery in the world as it is, he must needs go out of his way to torture kittens.
In this crisis of her life Frida found two friends, absolutely devoted and sympathetic: Helene and her husband. They, more than anybody, helped her through those first sad weeks. How mistaken the girls had been when they thought Helene worldly and heartless. My little flirt193 was then, and has proved herself through life, the most steadfast194 and reliable of us all. Her two brothers, the chubby boys, were now students at the Leipsic University, qualifying themselves for future town-councillorships and civic195 honours, coupled, I presume, with some German substitute for turtle soup.
Frida spent much of her time in the congenial atmosphere of my parents' house. We had always been devoted to her; how much more now! She loved music, and that, with us, was a sort of staple196 commodity to be found as surely as the daily bread. It was not an easy task to divert her thoughts from her trouble. All her girlish brightness had vanished, and she seemed, without a warning, to have had womanhood, suffering womanhood, thrust upon her. But she loved to be soothed197 by music, and more than once I remember my father improvising198 strains of consolation199 on his grand Erard, that seemed to go straight to her heart and strengthen her.
"Will you sit for me, Frida?" I asked one evening. "I should like to draw a portrait of you."
I had known Frida for four or five years, and had never asked her to sit, so the question surprised her, and it startled my mother, who was seated at the other end of the drawing-room on a little raised platform, surrounded by palms and a variety of plants with curiously shaped and fancifully speckled leaves. Her spinning-wheel, that had been going round with the regularity of clockwork, suddenly stopped—perhaps the thread had snapped. Catching200 my eye she reproachfully signalled behind Frida's back: "How can you, my dear? Surely this is not the time to use the poor girl as a model?" Frida evidently thought so too; she was at a loss for an answer, and there was an awkward silence. For an instant I wished I had not spoken; my request, I felt, was really ill timed; but, once out, I adhered to it, insisting, "Do, Frida; if nothing else, it will keep me out of mischief201 this evening."
She knew the thought of mischief was for from my mind, and she simply answered:
"Very well, Felix, if you wish it, I will sit." And with that she gave me an encouraging look.
I was anxious to get her to sit, for a picture of that girl in her sadness had gradually been ripening202 in my mind; it was so complete that it seemed only to want putting down, and no more difficult of accomplishment203 than the writing out of any lines that I might have learnt by heart. It was a case of "Don't begin till it's finished." That I have often since found a good maxim204, but one not so easily lived up to. The picture, then, such as I had conceived it, I was wedded205 to, for better or for worse. I must draw her all but full-face. The light from above, and slightly from the left, will model and bring out the delicate beauty of her features. It was all ready to be transcribed206: the smooth hair with the black ribbon tied in a large symmetrical bow on the top of the head, the plain dress, the background, and, above all, that expression, reflecting the yearnings of a poor chilled soul. On the surface, bewilderment, helplessness; beneath, a substratum of trust, of faith; and far below, hope, the spark of life that glimmers207 and glows on, even under mountains of despair.
We got the lamp that had served my purpose more than once, and the two candles, with the little special shades I had brought from Paris (I have them still), and Frida sat. Not once, but often, for the more I drew the more I was eager to pursue that will-o'-the-wisp, the realisation of an idea. Many a time I had to point my crayons, Conté No. 2, and to blacken the little paper stumps208, the classical tortillons, before I could make up my mind to admit that I had finished.
And what was the result? Perhaps it was very poor; probably it was; certainly, if you like—but I don't want to know it if it was. I want to think it was good and true, like the knight209 that serves the lady. If it is an illusion, bear with me and let me keep it.
I had a grey mount put round it and a cheap little black frame; and then—may the gods forgive my presumption210!—I felt as if the crayons and the humble tortillons might possibly have been working for the ends of Providence211; I packed up the picture and sent it with all my love to the Magisterin.
"Try it," I said; "he may like it." And she tried it, and—to that poor little drawing of mine it was given to work a miracle—gradually, but surely, it rent asunder the veil that obscured my dear Magister's mental vision.
It was not till long afterwards that I learnt what had happened on that critical day. The Magisterin told me all as we sat on a stone bench in the garden at the back of their house. It was a hot day and the Magister was in shirt-sleeves, pruning212 and tending his rose-trees, perhaps removing the blight that had settled on some leaf to warp213 and waste it. For once in the way the good Hausfrau vouchsafed214 to stop knitting, and took my hand as she began:—
"Your drawing came in the morning, my Lixchen. It was as I had fancied it, for Frida had well described it in her letters. It touched me deeply, but I could not even give a stray thought to my own feelings. 'Try it,' you had said, and a wild rush of conflicting emotions quite overcame me. How should I try it? I wished you were there, you or Reclam, to tell me what would be best. Might it not give him a shock and do him harm? I never felt as utterly215 helpless as all that morning. I waited. At one o'clock he was lying on the sofa and resting; he seemed to slumber216 more peacefully than usual. You know he had the desk with the little Mendelssohn bust sent from Leipsic; it was the only thing he had asked for. I stood the drawing up against it. He would be sure to see it when he awoke.
"Then I sat down and prayed.
"He rose as usual and seated himself at the table. Hours passed. His face was turned away from me, but I could see his hands as they lay clasped before him. At last he got up and went to the bookcase. 'They have changed everything,' I heard him say to himself. 'Where is my Sophocles? Ah! to be sure, to be sure.'
"He sat down, but got up again directly, found paper and pen, and laid out everything, just as he used to do at the old writing-table before beginning work. He took up the pen, but he did not write; occasionally he passed the quill217 over his forehead. I dared not move or speak. Oh, how long the hours seemed!
"The daylight was fading. Martha came home with the cows, and old Günther made his rounds and bolted the front gate. After that all was quiet. Yes—all was quiet,—quite quiet for a while.
"Suddenly he rose. He turned round and stood still. He looked at me,—a look I knew. My heart beat fast and the clock ticked so loud.
"He looked, and, ach, mein Lixchen, he smiled at me, just a little feeble smile, and an instant afterwards he rushed up to me and he burst into a flood of tears as he buried his face in my lap.
"'O Hannerl, my heart's treasure, tell me: Where is my Frida? Why is she not with me?'"
The dear old Magisterin could say no more; tears of gratitude choked her voice. I pressed her hand with my right, and with my left hand I brushed away something that had got between my eyelashes.
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1
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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thorny
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| adj.多刺的，棘手的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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scholastic
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| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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expounding
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的现在分词 ) | |
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commentators
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| n.评论员( commentator的名词复数 )；时事评论员；注释者；实况广播员 | |
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annexed
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| [法] 附加的，附属的 | |
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prodding
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| v.刺，戳( prod的现在分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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defunct
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| adj.死亡的；已倒闭的 | |
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relegated
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| v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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quartz
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initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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titular
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| adj.名义上的，有名无实的；n.只有名义（或头衔）的人 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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ruffles
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| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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bevy
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| n.一群 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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satchels
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| n.书包( satchel的名词复数 ) | |
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discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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tart
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| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
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dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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bribery
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| n.贿络行为，行贿，受贿 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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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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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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symposia
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| 座谈会，评论集； 讨论会( symposium的名词复数 )； 专题讨论会； 研讨会； 小型讨论会 | |
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sledge
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| n.雪橇，大锤；v.用雪橇搬运，坐雪橇往 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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53
prefix
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| n.前缀；vt.加…作为前缀；置于前面 | |
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54
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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55
Fahrenheit
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| n./adj.华氏温度；华氏温度计(的) | |
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56
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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57
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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58
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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59
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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60
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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61
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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62
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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63
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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64
doffing
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| n.下筒，落纱v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的现在分词 ) | |
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65
lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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66
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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67
benighted
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| adj.蒙昧的 | |
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68
spurt
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| v.喷出；突然进发；突然兴隆 | |
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69
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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70
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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71
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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72
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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73
truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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74
scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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75
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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76
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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77
ignominious
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| adj.可鄙的，不光彩的，耻辱的 | |
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78
grafts
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|
| 移植( graft的名词复数 )； 行贿； 接穗； 行贿得到的利益 | |
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79
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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80
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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81
rosebud
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| n.蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女 | |
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82
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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83
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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84
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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85
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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86
recuperate
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| v.恢复 | |
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87
mythical
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|
| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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88
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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89
meddlesome
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| adj.爱管闲事的 | |
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90
dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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91
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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92
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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93
misgivings
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|
| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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94
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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95
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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96
amiable
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|
| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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97
salute
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|
| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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98
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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99
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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100
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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101
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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102
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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104
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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105
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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106
impede
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，阻止 | |
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107
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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108
aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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109
elongated
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| v.延长，加长( elongate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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111
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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112
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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113
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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114
confiding
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|
| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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115
underlies
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| v.位于或存在于（某物）之下( underlie的第三人称单数 )；构成…的基础（或起因），引起 | |
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116
hirsute
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| adj.多毛的 | |
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117
manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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118
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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119
grandiloquent
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| adj.夸张的 | |
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120
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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121
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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122
supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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123
evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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124
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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125
barricades
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| 路障，障碍物( barricade的名词复数 ) | |
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126
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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127
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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128
prancing
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的现在分词 ) | |
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129
hooting
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的现在分词 )； 倒好儿； 倒彩 | |
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130
impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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131
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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132
inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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133
penal
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| adj.刑罚的；刑法上的 | |
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134
consolidate
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| v.使加固，使加强；(把...)联为一体，合并 | |
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135
chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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136
exchequer
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| n.财政部；国库 | |
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137
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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138
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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139
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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140
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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141
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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142
reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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143
argot
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| n.隐语，黑话 | |
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144
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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145
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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146
compartments
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| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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147
immortals
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| 不朽的人物( immortal的名词复数 )； 永生不朽者 | |
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148
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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149
cursorily
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| adv.粗糙地，疏忽地，马虎地 | |
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150
commiserated
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| v.怜悯，同情( commiserate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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151
cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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152
bestowal
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| 赠与，给与； 贮存 | |
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153
diluted
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| 无力的，冲淡的 | |
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154
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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155
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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156
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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157
tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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158
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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159
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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160
landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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161
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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162
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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163
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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164
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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165
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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166
brag
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| v./n.吹牛，自夸；adj.第一流的 | |
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167
terpsichorean
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| adj.舞蹈的；n.舞蹈家 | |
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168
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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169
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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170
ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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171
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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172
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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173
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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174
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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175
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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176
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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177
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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178
ebbed
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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179
sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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180
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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181
paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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182
reverberates
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的第三人称单数 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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183
equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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184
gash
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| v.深切，划开；n.(深长的)切(伤)口；裂缝 | |
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185
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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186
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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187
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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188
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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189
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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190
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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191
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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192
begets
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| v.为…之生父( beget的第三人称单数 )；产生，引起 | |
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193
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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194
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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195
civic
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| adj.城市的，都市的，市民的，公民的 | |
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196
staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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197
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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198
improvising
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| 即兴创作（improvise的现在分词形式） | |
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199
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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200
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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201
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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202
ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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203
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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204
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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205
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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206
transcribed
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| （用不同的录音手段）转录( transcribe的过去式和过去分词 )； 改编（乐曲）（以适应他种乐器或声部）； 抄写； 用音标标出（声音） | |
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207
glimmers
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| n.微光，闪光( glimmer的名词复数 )v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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208
stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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209
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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210
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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211
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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212
pruning
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| n.修枝，剪枝，修剪v.修剪（树木等）( prune的现在分词 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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213
warp
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| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
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214
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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215
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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216
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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217
quill
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| n.羽毛管；v.给（织物或衣服）作皱褶 | |
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