It may be as well to speak first of the faults which were attributed to it. It was said that the good people were all fools, and that the clever people were all knaves2. When the critics,—the talking critics as well as the writing critics,—began to discuss Vanity Fair, there had already grown up a feeling as to Thackeray as an author—that he was one who had taken up the business of castigating4 the vices5 of the world. Scott had dealt with the heroics, whether displayed in his Flora6 MacIvors or Meg Merrilieses, in his Ivanhoes or Ochiltrees. Miss Edgeworth had been moral; Miss Austen conventional; Bulwer had been poetical7 and sentimental8; Marryat and Lever had been funny and pugnacious9, always with a dash of gallantry, [Pg 91]displaying funny naval11 and funny military life; and Dickens had already become great in painting the virtues12 of the lower orders. But by all these some kind of virtue13 had been sung, though it might be only the virtue of riding a horse or fighting a duel14. Even Eugene Aram and Jack15 Sheppard, with whom Thackeray found so much fault, were intended to be fine fellows, though they broke into houses and committed murders. The primary object of all those writers was to create an interest by exciting sympathy. To enhance our sympathy personages were introduced who were very vile16 indeed,—as Bucklaw, in the guise17 of a lover, to heighten our feelings for Ravenswood and Lucy; as Wild, as a thief-taker, to make us more anxious for the saving of Jack; as Ralph Nickleby, to pile up the pity for his niece Kate. But each of these novelists might have appropriately begun with an Arma virumque cano. The song was to be of something godlike,—even with a Peter Simple. With Thackeray it had been altogether different. Alas18, alas! the meanness of human wishes; the poorness of human results! That had been his tone. There can be no doubt that the heroic had appeared contemptible19 to him, as being untrue. The girl who had deceived her papa and mamma seemed more probable to him than she who perished under the willow-tree from sheer love,—as given in the last chapter. Why sing songs that are false? Why tell of Lucy Ashtons and Kate Nicklebys, when pretty girls, let them be ever so beautiful, can be silly and sly? Why pour philosophy out of the mouth of a fashionable young gentleman like Pelham, seeing that young gentlemen of that sort rarely, or we may say never, talk after that fashion? Why make a housebreaker a gallant10 charming young fellow, the truth being [Pg 92]that housebreakers as a rule are as objectionable in their manners as they are in their morals? Thackeray's mind had in truth worked in this way, and he had become a satirist20. That had been all very well for Fraser and Punch; but when his satire21 was continued through a long novel, in twenty-four parts, readers,—who do in truth like the heroic better than the wicked,—began to declare that this writer was no novelist, but only a cynic.
Thence the question arises what a novel should be,—which I will endeavour to discuss very shortly in a later chapter. But this special fault was certainly found with Vanity Fair at the time. Heroines should not only be beautiful, but should be endowed also with a quasi celestial22 grace,—grace of dignity, propriety23, and reticence24. A heroine should hardly want to be married, the arrangement being almost too mundane,—and, should she be brought to consent to undergo such bond, because of its acknowledged utility, it should be at some period so distant as hardly to present itself to the mind as a reality. Eating and drinking should be altogether indifferent to her, and her clothes should be picturesque25 rather than smart, and that from accident rather than design. Thackeray's Amelia does not at all come up to the description here given. She is proud of having a lover, constantly declaring to herself and to others that he is "the greatest and the best of men,"—whereas the young gentleman is, in truth, a very little man. She is not at all indifferent as to her finery, nor, as we see incidentally, to enjoying her suppers at Vauxhall. She is anxious to be married,—and as soon as possible. A hero too should be dignified26 and of a noble presence; a man who, though he may be as poor as Nicholas Nickleby, should nevertheless be beautiful on all [Pg 93]occasions, and never deficient27 in readiness, address, or self-assertion. Vanity Fair is specially28 declared by the author to be "a novel without a hero," and therefore we have hardly a right to complain of deficiency of heroic conduct in any of the male characters. But Captain Dobbin does become the hero, and is deficient. Why was he called Dobbin, except to make him ridiculous? Why is he so shamefully29 ugly, so shy, so awkward? Why was he the son of a grocer? Thackeray in so depicting30 him was determined31 to run counter to the recognised taste of novel readers. And then again there was the feeling of another great fault. Let there be the virtuous32 in a novel and let there be the vicious, the dignified and the undignified, the sublime33 and the ridiculous,—only let the virtuous, the dignified, and the sublime be in the ascendant. Edith Bellenden, and Lord Evandale, and Morton himself would be too stilted34, were they not enlivened by Mause, and Cuddie, and Poundtext. But here, in this novel, the vicious and the absurd have been made to be of more importance than the good and the noble. Becky Sharp and Rawdon Crawley are the real heroine and hero of the story. It is with them that the reader is called upon to interest himself. It is of them that he will think when he is reading the book. It is by them that he will judge the book when he has read it. There was no doubt a feeling with the public that though satire may be very well in its place, it should not be made the backbone35 of a work so long and so important as this. A short story such as Catherine or Barry Lyndon might be pronounced to have been called for by the iniquities36 of an outside world; but this seemed to the readers to have been addressed almost to themselves. Now men and women like to be painted as [Pg 94]Titian would paint them, or Raffaelle,—not as Rembrandt, or even Rubens.
Whether the ideal or the real is the best form of a novel may be questioned, but there can be no doubt that as there are novelists who cannot descend37 from the bright heaven of the imagination to walk with their feet upon the earth, so there are others to whom it is not given to soar among clouds. The reader must please himself, and make his selection if he cannot enjoy both. There are many who are carried into a heaven of pathos38 by the woes39 of a Master of Ravenswood, who fail altogether to be touched by the enduring constancy of a Dobbin. There are others,—and I will not say but they may enjoy the keenest delight which literature can give,—who cannot employ their minds on fiction unless it be conveyed in poetry. With Thackeray it was essential that the representations made by him should be, to his own thinking, lifelike. A Dobbin seemed to him to be such a one as might probably be met with in the world, whereas to his thinking a Ravenswood was simply a creature of the imagination. He would have said of such, as we would say of female faces by Raffaelle, that women would like to be like them, but are not like them. Men might like to be like Ravenswood, and women may dream of men so formed and constituted, but such men do not exist. Dobbins do, and therefore Thackeray chose to write of a Dobbin.
So also of the preference given to Becky Sharp and to Rawdon Crawley. Thackeray thought that more can be done by exposing the vices than extolling40 the virtues of mankind. No doubt he had a more thorough belief in the one than in the other. The Dobbins he did encounter—seldom; the Rawdon Crawleys very often. He [Pg 95]saw around him so much that was mean! He was hurt so often by the little vanities of people! It was thus that he was driven to that overthoughtfulness about snobs42 of which I have spoken in the last chapter. It thus became natural to him to insist on the thing which he hated with unceasing assiduity, and only to break out now and again into a rapture43 of love for the true nobility which was dear to him,—as he did with the character of Captain Dobbin.
It must be added to all this that, before he has done with his snob41 or his knave3, he will generally weave in some little trait of humanity by which the sinner shall be relieved from the absolute darkness of utter iniquity44. He deals with no Varneys or Deputy-Shepherds, all villany and all lies, because the snobs and knaves he had seen had never been all snob or all knave. Even Shindy probably had some feeling for the poor woman he left at home. Rawdon Crawley loved his wicked wife dearly, and there were moments even with her in which some redeeming45 trait half reconciles her to the reader.
Such were the faults which were found in Vanity Fair; but though the faults were found freely, the book was read by all. Those who are old enough can well remember the effect which it had, and the welcome which was given to the different numbers as they appeared. Though the story is vague and wandering, clearly commenced without any idea of an ending, yet there is something in the telling which makes every portion of it perfect in itself. There are absurdities46 in it which would not be admitted to anyone who had not a peculiar47 gift of making even his absurdities delightful48. No schoolgirl who ever lived would have thrown back her gift-book, as Rebecca did the "dixonary," out of the carriage window as she was taken [Pg 96]away from school. But who does not love that scene with which the novel commences? How could such a girl as Amelia Osborne have got herself into such society as that in which we see her at Vauxhall? But we forgive it all because of the telling. And then there is that crowning absurdity49 of Sir Pitt Crawley and his establishment.
I never could understand how Thackeray in his first serious attempt could have dared to subject himself and Sir Pitt Crawley to the critics of the time. Sir Pitt is a baronet, a man of large property, and in Parliament, to whom Becky Sharp goes as a governess at the end of a delightful visit with her friend Amelia Sedley, on leaving Miss Pinkerton's school. The Sedley carriage takes her to Sir Pitt's door. "When the bell was rung a head appeared between the interstices of the dining-room shutters50, and the door was opened by a man in drab breeches and gaiters, with a dirty old coat, a foul51 old neckcloth lashed52 round his bristly neck, a shining bald head, a leering red face, a pair of twinkling gray eyes, and a mouth perpetually on the grin.
"'This Sir Pitt Crawley's?' says John from the box.
"'E'es,' says the man at the door with a nod.
"'Hand down these 'ere trunks there,' said John.
"'Hand 'em down yourself,' said the porter." But John on the box declines to do this, as he cannot leave his horses.
"The bald-headed man, taking his hands out of his breeches' pockets, advanced on this summons, and throwing Miss Sharp's trunk over his shoulder, carried it into the house." Then Becky is shown into the house, and a [Pg 97]dismantled dining-room is described, into which she is led by the dirty man with the trunk.
Two kitchen chairs, and a round table, and an attenuated53 old poker54 and tongs55, were, however, gathered round the fireplace, as was a saucepan over a feeble, sputtering56 fire. There was a bit of cheese and bread and a tin candlestick on the table, and a little black porter in a pint57 pot.
"Had your dinner, I suppose?" This was said by him of the bald head. "It is not too warm for you? Like a drop of beer?"
"Where is Sir Pitt Crawley?" said Miss Sharp majestically58.
"He, he! I'm Sir Pitt Crawley. Rek'lect you owe me a pint for bringing down your luggage. He, he! ask Tinker if I ain't."
The lady addressed as Mrs. Tinker at this moment made her appearance, with a pipe and a paper of tobacco, for which she had been despatched a minute before Miss Sharp's arrival; and she handed the articles over to Sir Pitt, who had taken his seat by the fire.
"Where's the farden?" said he. "I gave you three-halfpence; where's the change, old Tinker?"
"There," replied Mrs. Tinker, flinging down the coin. "It's only baronets as cares about farthings."
Sir Pitt Crawley has always been to me a stretch of audacity59 which I have been unable to understand. But it has been accepted; and from this commencement of Sir Pitt Crawley have grown the wonderful characters of the Crawley family,—old Miss Crawley, the worldly, wicked, pleasure-loving aunt, the Rev60. Bute Crawley and his wife, who are quite as worldly, the sanctimonious61 elder son, who in truth is not less so, and Rawdon, who ultimately becomes Becky's husband,—who is the bad hero of the book, as Dobbin is the good hero. They are admirable; but it is quite clear that Thackeray had known nothing of what was coming about them when he [Pg 98]caused Sir Pitt to eat his tripe62 with Mrs. Tinker in the London dining-room.
There is a double story running through the book, the parts of which are but lightly woven together, of which the former tells us the life and adventures of that singular young woman Becky Sharp, and the other the troubles and ultimate success of our noble hero Captain Dobbin. Though it be true that readers prefer, or pretend to prefer, the romantic to the common in their novels, and complain of pages which are defiled63 with that which is low, yet I find that the absurd, the ludicrous, and even the evil, leave more impression behind them than the grand, the beautiful, or even the good. Dominie Sampson, Dugald Dalgetty, and Bothwell are, I think, more remembered than Fergus MacIvor, than Ivanhoe himself, or Mr. Butler the minister. It certainly came to pass that, in spite of the critics, Becky Sharp became the first attraction in Vanity Fair. When we speak now of Vanity Fair, it is always to Becky that our thoughts recur64. She has made a position for herself in the world of fiction, and is one of our established personages.
I have already said how she left school, throwing the "dixonary" out of the window, like dust from her feet, and was taken to spend a few halcyon65 weeks with her friend Amelia Sedley, at the Sedley mansion66 in Russell Square. There she meets a brother Sedley home from India,—the immortal67 Jos,—at whom she began to set her hitherto untried cap. Here we become acquainted both with the Sedley and with the Osborne families, with all their domestic affections and domestic snobbery68, and have to confess that the snobbery is stronger than the affection. As we desire to love Amelia Sedley, we wish that the people around her were less vulgar or less selfish,—[Pg 99]especially we wish it in regard to that handsome young fellow, George Osborne, whom she loves with her whole heart. But with Jos Sedley we are inclined to be content, though he be fat, purse-proud, awkward, a drunkard, and a coward, because we do not want anything better for Becky. Becky does not want anything better for herself, because the man has money. She has been born a pauper69. She knows herself to be but ill qualified70 to set up as a beauty,—though by dint71 of cleverness she does succeed in that afterwards. She has no advantages in regard to friends or family as she enters life. She must earn her bread for herself. Young as she is, she loves money, and has a great idea of the power of money. Therefore, though Jos is distasteful at all points, she instantly makes her attack. She fails, however, at any rate for the present. She never becomes his wife, but at last she succeeds in getting some of his money. But before that time comes she has many a suffering to endure, and many a triumph to enjoy.
She goes to Sir Pitt Crawley as governess for his second family, and is taken down to Queen's Crawley in the country. There her cleverness prevails, even with the baronet, of whom I have just given Thackeray's portrait. She keeps his accounts, and writes his letters, and helps him to save money; she reads with the elder sister books they ought not to have read; she flatters the sanctimonious son. In point of fact, she becomes all in all at Queen's Crawley, so that Sir Pitt himself falls in love with her,—for there is reason to think that Sir Pitt may soon become again a widower72. But there also came down to the baronet's house, on an occasion of general entertaining, Captain Rawdon Crawley. Of course Becky sets her cap at him, and of course succeeds. She always [Pg 100]succeeds. Though she is only the governess, he insists upon dancing with her, to the neglect of all the young ladies of the neighbourhood. They continue to walk together by moonlight,—or starlight,—the great, heavy, stupid, half-tipsy dragoon, and the intriguing73, covetous74, altogether unprincipled young woman. And the two young people absolutely come to love one another in their way,—the heavy, stupid, fuddled dragoon, and the false, covetous, altogether unprincipled young woman.
The fat aunt Crawley is a maiden75 lady, very rich, and Becky quite succeeds in gaining the rich aunt by her wiles76. The aunt becomes so fond of Becky down in the country, that when she has to return to her own house in town, sick from over-eating, she cannot be happy without taking Becky with her. So Becky is installed in the house in London, having been taken away abruptly77 from her pupils, to the great dismay of the old lady's long-established resident companion. They all fall in love with her; she makes herself so charming, she is so clever; she can even, by help of a little care in dressing78, become so picturesque! As all this goes on, the reader feels what a great personage is Miss Rebecca Sharp.
Lady Crawley dies down in the country, while Becky is still staying with his sister, who will not part with her. Sir Pitt at once rushes up to town, before the funeral, looking for consolation79 where only he can find it. Becky brings him down word from his sister's room that the old lady is too ill to see him.
"So much the better," Sir Pitt answered; "I want to see you, Miss Sharp. I want you back at Queen's Crawley, miss," the baronet said. His eyes had such a strange look, and were fixed80 upon her so stedfastly that Rebecca Sharp began almost to [Pg 101]tremble. Then she half promises, talks about the dear children, and angles with the old man. "I tell you I want you," he says; "I'm going back to the vuneral, will you come back?—yes or no?"
"I daren't. I don't think—it wouldn't be right—to be alone—with you, sir," Becky said, seemingly in great agitation81.
"I say again, I want you. I can't get on without you. I didn't see what it was till you went away. The house all goes wrong. It's not the same place. All my accounts has got muddled82 again. You must come back. Do come back. Dear Becky, do come."
"Come,—as what, sir?" Rebecca gasped83 out.
"Come as Lady Crawley, if you like. There, will that zatisfy you? Come back and be my wife. You're vit for it. Birth be hanged. You're as good a lady as ever I see. You've got more brains in your little vinger than any baronet's wife in the country. Will you come? Yes or no?" Rebecca is startled, but the old man goes on. "I'll make you happy; zee if I don't. You shall do what you like, spend what you like, and have it all your own way. I'll make you a settlement. I'll do everything regular. Look here," and the old man fell down on his knees and leered at her like a satyr.
But Rebecca, though she had been angling, angling for favour and love and power, had not expected this. For once in her life she loses her presence of mind, and exclaims: "Oh Sir Pitt; oh sir; I—I'm married already!" She has married Rawdon Crawley, Sir Pitt's younger son, Miss Crawley's favourite among those of her family who are looking for her money. But she keeps her secret for the present, and writes a charming letter to the Captain; "Dearest,—Something tells me that we shall conquer. You shall leave that odious84 regiment85. Quit gaming, racing86, and be a good boy, and we shall all live in Park Lane, and ma tante shall leave us all her money." [Pg 102]Ma tante's money has been in her mind all through, but yet she loves him.
"Suppose the old lady doesn't come to," Rawdon said to his little wife as they sat together in the snug87 little Brompton lodgings88. She had been trying the new piano all the morning. The new gloves fitted her to a nicety. The new shawl became her wonderfully. The new rings glittered on her little hands, and the new watch ticked at her waist.
"I'll make your fortune," she said; and Delilah patted Samson's cheek.
"You can do anything," he said, kissing the little hand. "By Jove you can! and we'll drive down to the Star and Garter and dine, by Jove!"
They were neither of them quite heartless at that moment, nor did Rawdon ever become quite bad. Then follow the adventures of Becky as a married woman, through all of which there is a glimmer89 of love for her stupid husband, while it is the real purpose of her heart to get money how she may,—by her charms, by her wit, by her lies, by her readiness. She makes love to everyone,—even to her sanctimonious brother-in-law, who becomes Sir Pitt in his time,—and always succeeds. But in her love-making there is nothing of love. She gets hold of that well-remembered old reprobate90, the Marquis of Steyne, who possesses the two valuable gifts of being very dissolute and very rich, and from him she obtains money and jewels to her heart's desire. The abominations of Lord Steyne are depicted91 in the strongest language of which Vanity Fair admits. The reader's hair stands almost on end in horror at the wickedness of the two wretches,—at her desire for money, sheer money; and his for wickedness, sheer wickedness. Then her husband finds her out,—poor Rawdon! who with all his faults and [Pg 103]thickheaded stupidity, has become absolutely entranced by the wiles of his little wife. He is carried off to a sponging-house, in order that he may be out of the way, and, on escaping unexpectedly from thraldom92, finds the lord in his wife's drawing-room. Whereupon he thrashes the old lord, nearly killing93 him; takes away the plunder94 which he finds on his wife's person, and hurries away to seek assistance as to further revenge;—for he is determined to shoot the marquis, or to be shot. He goes to one Captain Macmurdo, who is to act as his second, and there he pours out his heart. "You don't know how fond I was of that one," Rawdon said, half-inarticulately. "Damme, I followed her like a footman! I gave up everything I had to her. I'm a beggar because I would marry her. By Jove, sir, I've pawned95 my own watch to get her anything she fancied. And she,—she's been making a purse for herself all the time, and grudged96 me a hundred pounds to get me out of quod!" His friend alleges97 that the wife may be innocent after all. "It may be so," Rawdon exclaimed sadly; "but this don't look very innocent!" And he showed the captain the thousand-pound note which he had found in Becky's pocketbook.
But the marquis can do better than fight; and Rawdon, in spite of his true love, can do better than follow the quarrel up to his own undoing98. The marquis, on the spur of the moment, gets the lady's husband appointed governor of Coventry Island, with a salary of three thousand pounds a year; and poor Rawdon at last condescends99 to accept the appointment. He will not see his wife again, but he makes her an allowance out of his income.
In arranging all this, Thackeray is enabled to have a [Pg 104]side blow at the British way of distributing patronage,—for the favour of which he was afterwards himself a candidate. He quotes as follows from The Royalist newspaper: "We hear that the governorship"—of Coventry Island—"has been offered to Colonel Rawdon Crawley, C.B., a distinguished100 Waterloo officer. We need not only men of acknowledged bravery, but men of administrative101 talents to superintend the affairs of our colonies; and we have no doubt that the gentleman selected by the Colonial Office to fill the lamented102 vacancy103 which has occurred at Coventry Island, is admirably calculated for the post." The reader, however, is aware that the officer in question cannot write a sentence or speak two words correctly.
Our heroine's adventures are carried on much further, but they cannot be given here in detail. To the end she is the same,—utterly false, selfish, covetous, and successful. To have made such a woman really in love would have been a mistake. Her husband she likes best,—because he is, or was, her own. But there is no man so foul, so wicked, so unattractive, but that she can fawn104 over him for money and jewels. There are women to whom nothing is nasty, either in person, language, scenes, actions, or principle,—and Becky is one of them; and yet she is herself attractive. A most wonderful sketch105, for the perpetration of which all Thackeray's power of combined indignation and humour was necessary!
The story of Amelia and her two lovers, George Osborne and Captain, or as he came afterwards to be, Major, and Colonel Dobbin, is less interesting, simply because goodness and eulogy106 are less exciting than wickedness and censure107. Amelia is a true, honest-hearted, thoroughly108 English young woman, who loves her love [Pg 105]because he is grand,—to her eyes,—and loving him, loves him with all her heart. Readers have said that she is silly, only because she is not heroic. I do not know that she is more silly than many young ladies whom we who are old have loved in our youth, or than those whom our sons are loving at the present time. Readers complain of Amelia because she is absolutely true to nature. There are no Raffaellistic touches, no added graces, no divine romance. She is feminine all over, and British,—loving, true, thoroughly unselfish, yet with a taste for having things comfortable, forgiving, quite capable of jealousy109, but prone110 to be appeased111 at once, at the first kiss; quite convinced that her lover, her husband, her children are the people in all the world to whom the greatest consideration is due. Such a one is sure to be the dupe of a Becky Sharp, should a Becky Sharp come in her way,—as is the case with so many sweet Amelias whom we have known. But in a matter of love she is sound enough and sensible enough,—and she is as true as steel. I know no trait in Amelia which a man would be ashamed to find in his own daughter.
She marries her George Osborne, who, to tell the truth of him, is but a poor kind of fellow, though he is a brave soldier. He thinks much of his own person, and is selfish. Thackeray puts in a touch or two here and there by which he is made to be odious. He would rather give a present to himself than to the girl who loved him. Nevertheless, when her father is ruined he marries her, and he fights bravely at Waterloo, and is killed. "No more firing was heard at Brussels. The pursuit rolled miles away. Darkness came down on the field and the city,—and Amelia was praying for George, who was lying on his face, dead, with a bullet through his heart."
[Pg 106]
Then follows the long courtship of Dobbin, the true hero,—he who has been the friend of George since their old school-days; who has lived with him and served him, and has also loved Amelia. But he has loved her,—as one man may love another,—solely with a view to the profit of his friend. He has known all along that George and Amelia have been engaged to each other as boy and girl. George would have neglected her, but Dobbin would not allow it. George would have jilted the girl who loved him, but Dobbin would not let him. He had nothing to get for himself, but loving her as he did, it was the work of his life to get for her all that she wanted.
George is shot at Waterloo, and then come fifteen years of widowhood,—fifteen years during which Becky is carrying on her man?uvres,—fifteen years during which Amelia cannot bring herself to accept the devotion of the old captain, who becomes at last a colonel. But at the end she is won. "The vessel112 is in port. He has got the prize he has been trying for all his life. The bird has come in at last. There it is, with its head on its shoulder, billing and cooing clean up to his heart, with soft outstretched fluttering wings. This is what he has asked for every day and hour for eighteen years. This is what he has pined after. Here it is,—the summit, the end, the last page of the third volume."
The reader as he closes the book has on his mind a strong conviction, the strongest possible conviction, that among men George is as weak and Dobbin as noble as any that he has met in literature; and that among women Amelia is as true and Becky as vile as any he has encountered. Of so much he will be conscious. In addition to this he will unconsciously have found that every page he has read will have been of interest to him. There has [Pg 107]been no padding, no longueurs; every bit will have had its weight with him. And he will find too at the end, if he will think of it—though readers, I fear, seldom think much of this in regard to books they have read—that the lesson taught in every page has been good. There may be details of evil painted so as to disgust,—painted almost too plainly,—but none painted so as to allure113.
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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castigating
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| v.严厉责骂、批评或惩罚（某人）( castigate的现在分词 ) | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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pugnacious
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| adj.好斗的 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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satirist
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| n.讽刺诗作者，讽刺家，爱挖苦别人的人 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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22
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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23
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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28
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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29
shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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30
depicting
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| 描绘，描画( depict的现在分词 )； 描述 | |
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31
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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32
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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34
stilted
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| adj.虚饰的；夸张的 | |
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35
backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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36
iniquities
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| n.邪恶( iniquity的名词复数 )；极不公正 | |
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37
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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38
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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39
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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40
extolling
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| v.赞美( extoll的现在分词 )；赞颂，赞扬，赞美( extol的现在分词 ) | |
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41
snob
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| n.势利小人，自以为高雅、有学问的人 | |
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42
snobs
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| （谄上傲下的）势利小人( snob的名词复数 )； 自高自大者，自命不凡者 | |
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43
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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44
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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45
redeeming
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| 补偿的，弥补的 | |
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46
absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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47
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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48
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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49
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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50
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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53
attenuated
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| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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54
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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55
tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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56
sputtering
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| n.反应溅射法；飞溅；阴极真空喷镀；喷射v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的现在分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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57
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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58
majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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60
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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61
sanctimonious
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| adj.假装神圣的，假装虔诚的，假装诚实的 | |
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tripe
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| n.废话，肚子, 内脏 | |
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63
defiled
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| v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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64
recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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65
halcyon
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| n.平静的，愉快的 | |
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66
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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67
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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68
snobbery
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| n. 充绅士气派, 俗不可耐的性格 | |
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69
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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71
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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72
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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73
intriguing
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| adj.有趣的；迷人的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的现在分词)；激起…的好奇心 | |
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74
covetous
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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75
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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76
wiles
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| n.（旨在欺骗或吸引人的）诡计，花招；欺骗，欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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77
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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78
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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80
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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81
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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82
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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83
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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84
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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85
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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86
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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87
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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88
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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89
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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90
reprobate
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| n.无赖汉；堕落的人 | |
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91
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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92
thraldom
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| n.奴隶的身份，奴役，束缚 | |
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93
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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94
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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95
pawned
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| v.典当，抵押( pawn的过去式和过去分词 )；以（某事物）担保 | |
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96
grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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97
alleges
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| 断言，宣称，辩解( allege的第三人称单数 ) | |
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98
undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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99
condescends
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的第三人称单数 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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100
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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101
administrative
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| adj.行政的，管理的 | |
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102
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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104
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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105
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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106
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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107
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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108
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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109
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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110
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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111
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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112
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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113
allure
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| n.诱惑力，魅力；vt.诱惑，引诱，吸引 | |
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