M. Bergeret was preparing his lesson on the eighth book of the ?neid, and he ought to have been devoting himself exclusively to the fascinating5 details of metre and language. In this task he would have found, if not joy, at any rate mental peace and the priceless balm of spiritual tranquillity19. Instead, he had turned his thoughts in another direction: he was musing20 on the soul, the genius, the outward features of that classic world whose books he spent his life in studying. He had given himself up to the longing21 to behold22 with his own eyes those golden shores, that azure23 sea, those rose-hued mountains, those lovely meadows through which the poet leads his heroes. He was bemoaning24 himself bitterly that it had never been his lot to visit the shores where once Troy stood, to gaze on the landscape of Virgil, to breathe the air of Italy, of Greece and holy Asia, as Gaston Boissier and Gaston Deschamps had done. The melancholy25 aspect of his study overwhelmed him and great waves of misery26 submerged his mind. His sadness was, of course, the fruit of his own folly27, for all our real sorrows come from within and are self-caused. We mistakenly believe that they come from outside, but we create them within ourselves from our own personality.
So sat M. Bergeret beneath the huge plaster cylinder28, manufacturing his own sadness and weariness as he reflected on his narrow, cramped29, and dismal life: his wife was a vulgar creature, who had by now lost all her good looks; his daughters,6 even, had no love for him, and finally the battles of ?neas and Turnus were dull and boring. At last he was aroused from this melancholy train of thought by the arrival of his pupil, M. Roux, who made his appearance in red trousers and a blue coat, for he was still going through his year of military service.
“Ha!” said M. Bergeret, “so I see they’ve turned my best Latin scholar into a hero.”
And when M. Roux denied the heroic impeachment30, the professor persisted: “I know what I’m talking about. I call a man who wears a sabre a hero, and I’m quite right in so doing. And if you only wore a busby, I should call you a great hero. The least one can decently do is to bestow31 a little flattery on the people one sends out to get shot. One couldn’t possibly pay them for their services at a cheaper rate. But may you never be immortalised by any act of heroism32, and may you only earn the praises of mankind by your attainments33 in Latin verse! It is my patriotism34, and nothing else, that moves me to this sincere wish. For I am persuaded by the study of history that heroism is mainly to be found among the routed and vanquished35. Even the Romans, a people by no means so eager for war as is commonly supposed, a people, too, who were often beaten, even the Romans only produced a Decius in a moment7 of defeat. At Marathon, too, the heroism of Kynegeirus was shown precisely36 at the moment of disaster for the Athenians, who, if they did succeed in arresting the march of the barbarian37 army, could not prevent them from embarking39 with all the Persian cavalry40 which had just been recuperating41 on the plains. Besides, it is not at all clear that the Persians made any special effort in this battle.”
M. Roux deposited his sabre in a corner of the study and sat down in a chair offered him by the professor.
“It is now four months,” said he, “since I have heard a single intelligent word. During these four months I have been concentrating all the powers of my mind on the task of conciliating my corporal and my sergeant42-major by carefully calculated tips. So far, that is the only side of the art of warfare43 that I can really say I have mastered. It is, however, the most important side. Yet I have in the process lost all power of grasping a general idea or of following a subtle thought. And here you are, my dear sir, telling me that the Greeks were conquered at Marathon and that the Romans were not warlike. My head whirls.”
M. Bergeret calmly replied:
“I merely said that Miltiades did not succeed in breaking through the forces of the barbarians44. As8 for the Romans, they were not essentially45 a military people, since they made profitable and lasting46 conquests, in contradistinction to the true military nations, such as the French, for instance, who seize all, but retain nothing.
“It is also to be noted47 that in Rome, in the time of the kings, aliens were not allowed to serve as soldiers. But in the reign48 of the good king Servius Tullius the citizens, being by no means anxious to reserve to themselves alone the honour of fatigue49 and perils50, admitted aliens resident in the city to military service. There are such things as heroes, but there are no nations of heroes, nor are there armies of heroes. Soldiers have never marched save under penalty of death. Military service was hateful even to those Latin herdsmen who gained for Rome the sovereignty of the world and the glorious name of goddess among the nations. The wearing of the soldier’s belt was to them such a hardship that the very name of this belt, ?rumna, eventually expressed for them the ideas of dejection, weariness of body and mind, wretchedness, misfortune and disaster. When well led they made, not heroes, but good soldiers and good navvies; little by little they conquered the world and covered it with roads and highways. The Romans never sought glory: they had no imagination. They only waged absolutely necessary9 wars in defence of their own interests. Their triumph was the triumph of patience and good sense.
“The make of a man is shown by his ruling passion. With soldiers, as with all crowds, the ruling passion, the predominant thought, is fear. They go to meet the enemy as the foe51 from whom the least danger is to be feared. Troops in line are so drawn52 up on both sides that flight is impossible. In that lies all the art of battle. The armies of the Republic were victorious53 because the discipline of the olden times was maintained in them with the utmost severity, while it was relaxed in the camp of the Allied54 Armies. Our generals of the second year after the Revolution were none other than sergeants55 like that la Ramée who used to have half a dozen conscripts shot every day in order to encourage the others, as Voltaire put it, and to arouse them with the trumpet-note of patriotism.”
“That’s very plausible56,” said M. Roux. “But there is another point. There is such a thing as the innate57 joy of firing a musket58-shot. As you know, my dear sir, I am by no means a destructive animal. I have no taste for military life. I have even very advanced humanitarian59 ideas, and I believe that the brotherhood60 of the nations will be brought about by the triumph of socialism.10 In a word, I am filled with the love of humanity. But as soon as they put a musket in my hand I want to fire at everyone. It’s in the blood....”
M. Roux was a fine hearty61 fellow who had quickly shaken down in his regiment62. Violent exercise suited his robust63 temperament64, and being in addition very adaptable65, although he had acquired no special taste for the profession, he found life in barracks quite bearable, and so remained both healthy and happy.
“You have left the power of suggestion out of your calculations, sir,” said he. “Only give a man a bayonet at the end of a musket and he will instantly be ready to plunge13 it into the body of the first comer and so make himself a hero, as you call it.”
The rich southern tones of M. Roux were still echoing through the room when Madame Bergeret came in. As a rule she seldom entered the study when her husband was there. To-day M. Bergeret noticed that she wore her fine pink and white peignoir.
Expressing great surprise at finding M. Roux in the study, she explained that she had just come in to ask her husband for a volume of poems with which she might while away an hour or two.
She was suddenly a charming, good-tempered woman: the professor noticed the fact, as a fact, though he felt no special interest in it.
11 Removing Freund’s Dictionary from an old leather arm-chair, M. Roux cleared a seat for Madame Bergeret, while her husband’s thoughts strayed, first to the quartos stacked against the wall and then to his wife who had taken their place in the arm-chair. These two masses of matter, the dictionary and the lady, thought he, were once but gases floating in the primitive66 nebulosity. Though now they are strangely different from one another in look, in nature and in function, they were once for long ages exactly similar.
“For,” thought he to himself, “Madame Bergeret once swam in the vasty abyss of the ages, shapeless, unconscious, scattered67 in light gleams of oxygen and carbon. At the same time, the molecules68 that were one day to make up this Latin dictionary were whirling in this same vapour, which was destined69 at last to give birth to monstrous forms, to minute insects and to a slender thread of thought. These imperfect and often harassing70 creations, these monuments of my weary life, my wife and my dictionary, needed the travail71 of eternity72 to produce them. Yet Amélie is just a paltry73 mind in a coarsened body, and my dictionary is full of mistakes. We can see from this example alone that there is very little hope that even new ?ons of time would ever give us12 perfect knowledge and beauty. As it is, we live but for a moment, yet by living for ever we should gain nothing. The faults we see in nature, and how faulty she is we know, are produced neither by time nor space!”
And in the restless perturbation of his thoughts M. Bergeret continued:
“But what is time itself, save just the movements of nature, and how can I judge whether these are long or short? Granted that nature is cruel in her cast-iron laws, how comes it that I recognise the fact? And how do I manage to place myself outside her, so that I can weigh her deeds in my scales? Had I but another standpoint in it, perchance the universe might even seem to me a happier place.”
M. Bergeret hereupon suddenly emerged from his day-dream, and leant forward to push the tottering74 pile of quartos close against the wall.
“You are somewhat sunburnt, Monsieur Roux,” said Madame Bergeret, “and rather thinner, I fancy. But it suits you well enough.”
“The first few months are trying,” answered M. Roux. “Drill, of course, in the barrack-yard at six o’clock in the morning and with eight degrees of frost is rather a painful process, and just at first one finds it difficult to look on the mess as appetising. But weariness is, after all, a great blessing,13 stupefaction a priceless remedy and the stupor75 in which one lives is as soporific as a feather-bed. And because at night one only sleeps in snatches, by day one is never wide awake. And this state of automatic lethargy in which we all live is admirably conducive76 to discipline, it suits the tone of military life and produces physical and moral efficiency in the ranks.”
In short, M. Roux had nothing to complain of, but one of his friends, a certain Deval, a student of Malay at the school of Oriental languages, was plunged in the depths of misery and despair. Deval, an intelligent, well-educated, intrepid77 man, was cursed with a sort of rigidity78 of mind and body that made him tactless and awkward. In addition to this he was harassed80 by a painfully exact sense of justice which gave him peculiar81 views of his rights and duties. This unfortunate turn of mind landed him in all sorts of troubles, and he had not been more than twenty-four hours in barracks before Sergeant Lebrec demanded, in terms which must needs be softened82 for Madame Bergeret’s sake, what ill-conducted being had given birth to such a clumsy cub83 as Number Five. It took Deval a long time to make sure that he, and none other, was actually Number Five. He had, in fact, to be put under arrest before he was convinced on the subject. Even then he could not see14 why the honour of Madame Deval, his mother, should be called in question because he himself was not exactly in line. His sense of justice was outraged84 by his mother’s being unexpectedly declared responsible in this matter, and at the end of four months he was still a prey85 to melancholy amazement86 at the idea.
“Your friend Deval,” answered M. Bergeret, “put a wrong construction on a warlike speech that I should be inclined to count among those which exalt87 men’s moral tone. Such speeches, in fact, arouse the spirit of emulation88 by exciting a desire to earn the good-conduct stripes, which confer on their wearers the right to make similar speeches in their turn, speeches which obviously stamp the speaker of them as head and shoulders above those humble89 beings to whom they are addressed. The authority of officers in the army should never be weakened, as was done in a recent circular issued by a War Minister, which laid down the law that officers and non-commissioned officers were to avoid the practice of addressing the men with the contemptuous ‘thou.’ The minister, himself a well-bred, courteous90, urbane91 and honourable92 man, was full of the idea of the dignified93 position of the citizen soldier and failed, therefore, to perceive that the power of scorning an inferior is the guiding principle in emulation and the15 foundation-stone of all governance. Sergeant Lebrec spoke94 like a hero who is schooling95 heroes, for, being a philologist96, I am able to reconstruct the original form his speech took. This being the case, I have no hesitation97 in declaring that, in my opinion, Sergeant Lebrec rose to sublimity98 when he associated the good fame of a family with the port of a conscript, when he thus linked the life of Number Five, even before he saw the light, with the regiment and the flag. For, in truth, does not the issue of all warfare rest on the discipline of the recruit?
“After this, you will probably tell me that I am indulging in the weakness common to all commentators99 and reading into the text of my author meanings which he never intended. I grant you that there is a certain element of unconsciousness in Sergeant Lebrec’s memorable100 speech. But therein lies the genius of it. Unaware101 of his own range, he hurls102 his bolts broadcast.”
M. Roux answered with a smile that there certainly was an unconscious element in Sergeant Lebrec’s inspiration. He quite agreed with M. Bergeret there. But Madame Bergeret interposed drily:
“I don’t understand you at all, Lucien. You always laugh when there is nothing funny, and really one never knows whether you are joking or16 serious. It’s positively103 impossible to talk rationally to you.”
“My wife reasons after the dean’s fashion,” said M. Bergeret, “and the only thing to do with either is to give in.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Madame Bergeret, “you do well to talk about the dean! You have always set yourself to annoy him and now you are paying for your folly. You have also managed to fall out with the rector. I met him on Sunday when I was out with the girls and he hardly so much as bowed.” And turning towards the young soldier, she continued:
“I know that my husband is very much attached to you, Monsieur Roux. You are his favourite pupil and he foretells104 a brilliant future for you.”
M. Roux’s swarthy face, with its mat of frizzy hair, flashed into a bold smile that showed the brilliant whiteness of his teeth.
“Do try, Monsieur Roux, to get my husband to use a little tact79 with people who may be useful to him. His conduct is making life a howling wilderness105 for us all.”
“Surely not, Madame,” murmured M. Roux, turning the conversation.
“The peasants,” said he, “drag out a wretched three years of service. They suffer horribly, but no one ever guesses it, for they are quite inarticulate17 when it comes to expressing subtleties106. Loving the land as they do with all the intensity107 of animal passion, when they are separated from it their existence is full of deep, silent, monotonous108 melancholy, with nothing whatever to distract them from their sense of exile and imprisonment109, save fear of their officers and weariness of their occupation. Everything around them is strange and incomprehensible. In my company, for instance, there are two Bretons who have not learnt the colonel’s name after six months’ training. Every morning we are drawn up before the sergeant to repeat this name with them, for every one in the regiment receives exactly the same instruction. Our colonel’s name is Dupont. It’s the same in all our exercises: quick, clever men are kept back for ever to wait for the dolts110.”
M. Bergeret inquired whether, like Sergeant Lebrec, the officers also cultivated the art of martial111 eloquence112.
“Not at all,” said M. Roux. “My captain—quite a young man he is, too—is the very pink of courtesy. He is an ?sthete, a Rosicrucian, and he paints pictures of angels and pallid113 virgins114, against a background of pink and green skies. I devise the legends for his pictures, and whilst Deval is on fatigue-duty in the barrack-square, I am on duty with the captain, who employs me to18 produce verses for him. He really is a charming fellow. His name is Marcel de Lagère; he exhibits at L’?uvre under the pseudonym115 of Cyne.”
“Is he a hero too?” asked M. Bergeret.
“Say rather a Saint George,” answered M. Roux. “He has conceived a mystic ideal of the military profession and declares that it is the perfect way of life. We are marching, unawares, to an unknown goal. Piously116, solemnly, chastely118, we advance towards the altar of mystic, fated sacrifice. He is exquisite119. I am teaching him to write vers libre and prose poems and he is beginning to compose prose sketches120 of military life. He is happy, placid121 and gentle, and the only sorrow he has is the flag. He considers its red, white and blue an intolerably violent colour scheme and yearns122 for one of rose-pink or lilac. His dreams are of the banner of Heaven. ‘If even,’ he says sadly, ‘the three colours rose from a flower-stalk, like the three flames of the oriflamme, it would be bearable. But when they are perpendicular123, they cut the floating folds painfully and ridiculously.’ He suffers, but he bears his suffering bravely and patiently. As I said before, he is a true Saint George.”
“From your description,” said Madame Bergeret, “I feel keenly for the poor young man.”19 So speaking, she threw a severe glance in M. Bergeret’s direction.
“But aren’t the other officers amazed at him?” asked M. Bergeret.
“Not at all,” answered M. Roux. “For at mess, or in society, he says nothing about his opinions and he looks just like any other officer.”
“And what do the men think of him?”
“The men never come in contact with their officers in quarters.”
“You will dine with us, won’t you, Monsieur Roux?” said Madame Bergeret. “It will give us great pleasure if you will stay.”
Her words instantly suggested to M. Bergeret’s mind the vision of a pie, for whenever Madame Bergeret had informally invited anyone to dinner she always ordered a pie from Magloire, the pastry-cook, and usually a pie without meat, as being more dainty. By a purely124 mental impetus125 that had no connection with greed, M. Bergeret now called up a picture of an egg or fish pie, smoking in a blue-patterned dish on a damask napkin. Homely126 and prophetic vision! But if Madame Bergeret invited M. Roux to dinner, she must think a great deal of him, for it was most unusual for Amélie to offer the pleasures of her humble table to a stranger. She dreaded127 the expense and fuss of doing so, and justly, for the days when she20 had a guest to dinner were made hideous128 by the noise of broken dishes, by yells of alarm and tears of rage from the young maid, Euphémie, by an acrid129 smoke-reek that filled the whole flat and by a smell of cooking which found its way to the study and disturbed M. Bergeret among the shades of ?neas, Turnus, and the bashful Lavinia. However, the professor was delighted at the idea that his pupil, M. Roux, would feed to-night at his table. For there was nothing he liked better than men’s talk, and a long discussion filled him with joy.
Madame Bergeret continued:
“You know, Monsieur Roux, it will be just pot-luck.”
Then she departed to give Euphémie her orders.
“My dear sir,” said M. Bergeret to his pupil, “are you still asserting the pre-eminence of vers libre? Of course, I am aware that poetic130 forms vary according to time and place. Nor am I ignorant of the fact that, in the course of ages, French verse has undergone incessant131 alterations132, and, hidden behind my books of notes on metre, I can smile discreetly133 at the pious117 prejudices of the poets who refuse to allow anyone to lay an unhallowed finger on the instrument consecrated134 by their genius. I have noticed that they give no reasons for the rules they follow, and I am inclined21 to think that one must not search for these reasons in the verse itself, but rather in the music which in primitive times accompanied it. It is the scientific spirit which I acknowledge as my guide, and as that is naturally far less conservative than the artistic135 spirit, I am therefore ready to welcome innovations. But I must, nevertheless, confess that vers libre baffles me and I cannot even grasp the definition of it. The vagueness of the limits to which it must conform is a worry to me and ...”
At that moment a visitor came into the study. It was a well-built man in the prime of life, with handsome sunburnt features. Captain Aspertini of Naples was a student of philology136 and agriculture and a member of the Italian Parliament who for the last ten years had been carrying on a learned correspondence with M. Bergeret, after the style of the great scholars of the Renaissance137 and the seventeenth century, and whenever he visited France he made it his practice to come and see his correspondent. Savants the world over held a high opinion of Carlo Aspertini for having deciphered a complete treatise138 by Epicurus on one of the charred139 scrolls140 from Pompeii. Although his energies were now absorbed in agriculture, politics and business, he was still passionately141 devoted142 to the art of numismatics and his sensitive hands still22 itched143 to have the fingering of medals. Indeed, there were two attractions which drew him to * * *—the pleasure of seeing M. Bergeret and the delight of looking once more at the priceless collection of ancient coins bequeathed to the town library by Boucher de La Salle. He also came to collate144 the letters of Muratori which were preserved there. The two men greeted each other with great pleasure, for a common love of knowledge had made them fellow-citizens. Then, when the Neapolitan perceived that they had a soldier with them in the study, M. Bergeret hastened to inform him that this Gallic warrior145 was a budding philologist, inspired by enthusiasm for the Latin tongue.
“This year, however,” said M. Bergeret, “he is learning in a barrack-square to put one foot before the other, and in him you see what our witty146 commandant, General Cartier de Chalmot, calls the primary tool of tactics, commonly known as a soldier. My pupil, M. Roux, is a warrior, and having a high-bred soul, he feels the honour of the position. Truth to tell, it is an honour which he shares at this identical moment with all the young men of haughty147 Europe. Your Neapolitans, too, rejoice in it, since they became part of a great nation.”
“Without wishing in any way to show disloyalty23 to the house of Savoy, to which I am genuinely attached,” said the captain, “I feel that military service and taxation148 weigh so heavily on the Neapolitans as to make them sometimes regret the happy days of King Bomba and the pleasure of living ingloriously under an easy-going government. Neither tax nor conscription is popular with the Neapolitan. What is wanted is that statesmen should really open their eyes to the necessities of national life. But, as you know, I have always been an opponent of megalomaniac politics and have always deplored149 those great armaments which hinder all progress in Europe, whether it be intellectual, moral, or material. It is a great, a ruinous folly which can only culminate150 in farce151.”
“I foresee no end to it at all,” replied M. Bergeret. “No one wishes it to end save certain thinkers who have no means of making their ideas known. The rulers of states cannot desire disarmament, for such a movement would render their position difficult and precarious152 and would take an admirable tool of empire out of their hands. For armed nations meekly153 submit to government. Military discipline shapes them to obedience154, and in a nation so disciplined, neither insurrections, nor riots, nor tumults155 of any kind need be feared. When military service is obligatory156 upon all, when all the citizens either are, or have been,24 soldiers, then all the forces of social life are so calculated as to support power, or even the lack of it. This fact the history of France can prove.”
Just as M. Bergeret reached this point in his political reflections, from the kitchen close by there burst out the noise of grease pouring over on the fire; from this the professor inferred that the youthful Euphémie, according to her usual practice on gala days, had upset her saucepan on the stove, after rashly balancing it on a pyramid of coal. He had learnt by now that such an event must recur157 again and again with the inexorable certainty of the laws that govern the universe. A shocking smell of burnt meat filled the study, while M. Bergeret traced the course of his ideas as follows:
“Had not Europe,” said he, “been turned into a barrack, we should have seen insurrections bursting out in France, Germany, or Italy, as they did in former times. But nowadays those obscure forces which from time to time uplift the very pavements of our city find regular vent38 in the fatigue duty of barrack-yards, in the grooming158 of horses and the sentiment of patriotism.
“The rank of corporal supplies an admirable outlet159 for the energies of young heroes who, had they been left in freedom, would have been building barricades160 to keep their arms lissom161. I have only this moment been told of the sublime25 speeches made by a certain Sergeant Lebrec. Were he dressed in the peasant’s blouse this hero would be thirsting for liberty, but clad in a uniform, it is tyranny for which he yearns, and to help in the maintenance of order the thing for which he craves162. In armed nations it is easy enough to preserve internal peace, and you will notice that, although in the course of the last twenty-five years, Paris has been a little agitated163 on one occasion, it was only when the commotion164 was the work of a War Minister. That is, a general was able to do what a demagogue could not have done. And the moment this general lost his hold on the army, he also lost it on the nation, and his power was gone. Therefore, whether the State be a monarchy165, an empire, or a republic, its rulers have an interest in keeping up obligatory military service for all, in order that they may command an army, instead of governing a nation.
“And, while the rulers have no desire for disarmament, the people have lost all wish for it, too. The masses endure military service quite willingly, for, without being exactly pleasurable, it gives an outlet to the rough, crude instincts of the majority and presents itself as the simplest, roughest and strongest expression of their sense of duty. It overawes them by the gorgeous splendour of its outward paraphernalia166 and by the amount of metal26 used in it. In short, it exalts167 them through the only ideals of power, of grandeur168 and of glory, which they are capable of conceiving. Often they rush into it with a song; if not, they are perforce driven to it. For these reasons I foresee no termination to this honourable calling which is brutalising and impoverishing169 Europe.”
“There are,” said Captain Aspertini, “two ways out of it: war and bankruptcy170.”
“War!” exclaimed M. Bergeret. “It is patent that great armaments only hinder that by aggravating171 the horrors of it and rendering172 it of doubtful issue for both combatants. As for bankruptcy, I foretold173 it the other day to Abbé Lantaigne, the principal of our high seminary, as we sat on a bench on the Mall. But you need not pin your faith on me. You have studied the history of the Lower Empire too deeply, my dear Aspertini, not to be perfectly174 aware that, in questions of national finance, there are mysterious resources which escape the scrutiny175 of political economists176. A ruined nation may exist for five hundred years on robbery and extortion, and how is one to guess what a great people, out of its poverty, will manage to supply to its defenders177 in the way of cannon178, muskets179, bad bread, bad shoes, straw and oats?”
“This argument sounds plausible enough,” answered Aspertini. “Yet, with all due deference27 to your opinion, I believe I can already discern the dawn of universal peace.”
Then, in a sing-song voice, the kindly180 Neapolitan began to describe his hopes and dreams for the future, to the accompaniment of the heavy thumping181 of the chopper with which the youthful Euphémie was preparing a mince182 for M. Roux on the kitchen table just the other side of the wall.
“Do you remember, Monsieur Bergeret,” said Captain Aspertini, “the place in Don Quixote where Sancho complains of being obliged to endure a never-ending series of misfortunes and the ready-witted knight183 tells him that this protracted184 wretchedness is merely a sign that happiness is at hand? ‘For,’ says he, ‘fortune is a fickle185 jade186 and our troubles have already lasted so long that they must soon give place to good-luck.’ The law of change alone....”
The rest of these optimistic utterances187 was lost in the boiling over of the kettle of water, followed by the unearthly yells of Euphémie, as she fled in terror from her stove.
Then M. Bergeret’s mind, saddened by the sordid188 ugliness of his cramped life, fell to dreaming of a villa189 where, on white terraces overlooking the blue waters of a lake, he might hold peaceful converse190 with M. Roux and Captain Aspertini, amid the scent191 of myrtles, when the amorous192 moon rides28 high in a sky as clear as the glance of a god and as sweet as the breath of a goddess.
But he soon emerged from this dream and began once more to take part in the discussion.
“The results of war,” said he, “are quite incalculable. My good friend William Harrison writes to me that French scholarship has been despised in England since 1871, and that at the Universities of Oxford193, Cambridge and Dublin it is the fashion to ignore Maurice Raynouard’s text-book of arch?ology, though it would be more helpful to their students than any other similar work. But they refuse to learn from the vanquished. And in order that they may feel confidence in a professor when he speaks on the characteristics of the art of ?gina or on the origins of Greek pottery194, it is considered necessary that he should belong to a nation which excels in the casting of cannon. Because Marshal Mac-Mahon was beaten in 1870 at Sedan and General Chanzy lost his army at the Maine in the same year, my colleague Maurice Raynouard is banished195 from Oxford in 1897. Such are the results of military inferiority, slow-moving and illogical, yet sure in their effects. And it is, alas196, only too true that the fate of the Muses197 is settled by a sword-thrust.”
“My dear sir,” said Aspertini, “I am going to29 answer you with all the frankness permissible198 in a friend. Let us first grant that French thought circulates freely through the world, as it has always done. And although the arch?ological manual of your learned countryman Maurice Raynouard may not have found a place on the desks of the English Universities, yet your plays are acted in all the theatres of the world; the novels of Alphonse Daudet and of émile Zola are translated into every language; the canvases of your painters adorn199 the galleries of two worlds; the achievements of your scientists win renown200 in every quarter of the globe. And if your soul no longer thrills the soul of the nations, if your voice no longer quickens the heart-beats of mankind, it is because you no longer choose to play the part of apostles of brotherhood and justice, it is because you no longer utter the holy words that bring strength and consolation201; it is because France is no longer the lover of the human race, the comrade of the nations; it is because she no longer opens her hands to fling broadcast those seeds of liberty which once she scattered in such generous and sovereign fashion that for long years it seemed that every beautiful human idea was a French idea; it is because she is no longer the France of the philosophers and of the Revolution: in the garrets round the Panthéon and the Luxembourg there are30 no longer to be found young leaders, writing on deal tables night after night, with all the fire of youth, those pages which make the nations tremble and the despots grow pale with fear. Do not then complain that the glory which you cannot view without misgivings202 has passed away.
“Especially, do not say that your defeats are the sources of your misfortunes: say, rather, that they are the outcome of your faults. A nation suffers no more injury from a battle lost than a robust man suffers from a sword-scratch received in a duel204. It is an injury that only produces a transient illness in the system, a perfectly curable weakness. To cure it, all that is needed is a little courage, skill and political good sense. The first act of policy, the most necessary and certainly the easiest, is to make the defeat yield all the military glory it is capable of producing. For in the true view of things, the glory of the vanquished equals that of the conquerors205, and it is, in addition, the more moving spectacle. In order to make the best of a disaster it is desirable to fête the general and the army which has sustained it, and to blazon206 abroad all the beautiful incidents which prove the moral superiority of misfortune. Such incidents are to be found even in the most headlong retreats. From the very first moment, then, the defeated side ought to decorate, to embellish207, to gild208 their31 defeat, and to distinguish it with unmistakably grand and beautiful symbols. In Livy it may be read how the Romans never failed to do this, and how they hung palms and wreaths on the swords broken at the battles of the Trebbia, of Trasimene and of Cann?. Even the disastrous209 inaction of Fabius has been so extolled210 by them that, after the lapse211 of twenty-two centuries, we still stand amazed at the wisdom of the Cunctator, the Lingerer, as he was nicknamed. Yet, after all, he was nothing but an old fool. In this lies the great art of defeat.”
“It is by no means a lost art,” said M. Bergeret. “In our own days Italy showed that she knew how to practise it after Novara, after Lissa, after Adowa.”
“My dear sir,” said Captain Aspertini, “whenever an Italian army capitulates, we rightly reckon this capitulation glorious. A government which succeeds in throwing a glamour212 of poetry over a defeat rouses the spirit of patriotism within the country and at the same time makes itself interesting in the eyes of foreigners. And to bring about these two results is a fairly considerable achievement. In the year 1870 it rested entirely213 with you Frenchmen to produce them for yourselves. After Sedan, had the Senate, the Chamber214 of Deputies, and all the State officials publicly32 and unanimously congratulated the Emperor Napoleon and Marshal Mac-Mahon on not having despaired of the salvation215 of their country when they gave battle to the enemy, do you not think that France would have gained a radiant halo of glory from the defeat of its army? At the same time it would have given forcible expression of its will to conquer. And pray believe, dear Monsieur Bergeret, that I am not impertinent enough to be trying to give your country lessons in patriotism. In doing that, I should be putting myself in a wrong position. I am merely presenting you with some of the marginal notes that will be found, after my death, pencilled in my copy of Livy.”
“It is not the first time,” said M. Bergeret, “that the commentary on the Decades has been worth more than the text. But go on.”
With a smile Captain Aspertini once more took up the thread of his argument.
“The wisest thing for the country to do is to cast huge handfuls of lilies over the wounds of war. Then, skilfully216 and silently, with a swift glance, she will examine the wound. If the blow has been a knock-down one, and if the strength of the country is seriously impaired217, she will instantly start negotiating. In treating with the victorious side, it will be found that the earliest moment is33 the most propitious218. In the first surprise of triumph, the enemy welcomes with joy any proposal which tends to turn a favourable219 beginning into a definite advantage. He has not yet had time for repeated successes to go to his head, nor for long-continued resistance to drive him to rage. He will not demand huge damages for an injury that is still trifling220, nor, as yet, have his budding aspirations221 had time to grow. It is possible that even under these circumstances he may not grant you peace on easy terms. But you are sure to have to pay dearer for it, if you delay in applying for it. The wisest policy is to open negotiations222 before one has revealed all one’s weakness. It is possible then to obtain easy terms, which are usually rendered easier still by the intervention223 of neutral powers. As for seeking safety in despair and only making peace after a victory, these ideas are doubtless fine enough as maxims224, but very difficult to carry out at a time when, for one thing, the industrial and commercial needs of modern life, and for another, the immense size of the armies which have to be equipped and fed, do not permit an indefinite continuance of warfare, and consequently do not leave the weaker side enough time to straighten out its affairs. France in 1870 was inspired by the noblest of sentiments, but if she had acted in accordance with reason, she would34 have started negotiations immediately after her first reverses, honourable as they were. She had a government which could have undertaken the task, and which ought to have done so, a government which was, indeed, in a better position for bringing it to a successful issue than any that might follow. The sensible thing to have done would have been to exact this last service from it before getting rid of it altogether. Instead, they acted the wrong way about. After having maintained that government for twenty years, France conceived the ill-considered notion of overturning it just at the very moment when it ought to have been useful to her, and of substituting another government for it. This administration, not being jointly225 liable with the former one, had to begin the war over again, without, however, bringing any new strength to its prosecution226. After that a third government tried to establish itself.
“If it had succeeded, the war would have begun again a third time, because the first two unfortunate attempts did not count. Honour, say you, must be satisfied. But you had given satisfaction with your blood to two honours: the honour of the Empire, as well as of the Republic; you were also ready to satisfy a third, the honour of the Commune. Yet it seems to me that even the proudest nation in the world has but one honour35 to satisfy. You were thrown by this excess of generosity227 into a state of great weakness from which you are now happily recovering....”
“In fact,” said M. Bergeret, “if Italy had been beaten at Weissenburg and at Reichshoffen, these defeats would have been as valuable to her as the whole of Belgium. But we are a people of heroes, who always fancy that we have been betrayed. That sums up our history. Take note also of the fact that we are a democracy; and that is the state in which negotiations present most difficulties. Nobody can, however, deny that we made a long and courageous228 stand. Moreover, we have a reputation for magnanimity, and I believe we deserve it. Anyhow, the feats203 of the human race have always been but melancholy farces229, and the historians who pretend to discover any sequence in the flow of events are merely great rhetoricians. Bossuet...”
Just as M. Bergeret was uttering this name the study door opened with such a crash that the wicker-work woman was upheaved by it and fell at the feet of the astonished young soldier. Then there appeared in the doorway230 a ruddy, squint-eyed wench, with no forehead worth mentioning. Her sturdy ugliness shone with the glow of youth and health. Her round cheeks and bare arms were a fine military red. Planting herself in front of36 M. Bergeret, she brandished231 the coal-shovel232 and shouted:
“I’m off!”
Euphémie, having quarrelled with Madame Bergeret, was now giving notice. She repeated:
“I’m going off home!”
Said M. Bergeret:
“Then go quietly, my child.”
Again and again she shouted:
“I’m off! Madame wants to turn me into a regular beast of burden.”
Then, lowering her shovel, she added in lower tones:
“Besides, things are always happening here that I would rather not see.”
Without attempting to unravel233 the mystery of these words, M. Bergeret merely remarked that he would not delay her, and that she could go.
“Well, then, give me my wages.”
“Leave the room,” answered M. Bergeret. “Don’t you see that I have something to do besides settling with you? Go and wait elsewhere.”
But Euphémie, once more waving the dull, heavy shovel, yelled:
“Give me my money! My wages! I want my wages!”
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1
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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9
cantankerous
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| adj.爱争吵的，脾气不好的 | |
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abortion
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| n.流产，堕胎 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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12
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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13
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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14
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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bleakness
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| adj. 萧瑟的, 严寒的, 阴郁的 | |
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16
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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17
dummy
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| n.假的东西；(哄婴儿的)橡皮奶头 | |
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18
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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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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21
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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24
bemoaning
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| v.为（某人或某事）抱怨( bemoan的现在分词 )；悲悼；为…恸哭；哀叹 | |
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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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26
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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27
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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28
cylinder
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| n.圆筒，柱(面)，汽缸 | |
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29
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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30
impeachment
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| n.弹劾；控告；怀疑 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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32
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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33
attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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34
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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35
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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36
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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37
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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38
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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39
embarking
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| 乘船( embark的现在分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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40
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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41
recuperating
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| v.恢复（健康、体力等），复原( recuperate的现在分词 ) | |
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42
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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43
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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45
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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46
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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47
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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49
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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50
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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51
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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52
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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53
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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54
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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55
sergeants
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| 警官( sergeant的名词复数 )； （美国警察）警佐； （英国警察）巡佐； 陆军（或空军）中士 | |
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56
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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57
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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58
musket
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| n.滑膛枪 | |
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59
humanitarian
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| n.人道主义者，博爱者，基督凡人论者 | |
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60
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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61
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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63
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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64
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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65
adaptable
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| adj.能适应的，适应性强的，可改编的 | |
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66
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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67
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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68
molecules
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| 分子( molecule的名词复数 ) | |
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69
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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70
harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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71
travail
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| n.阵痛；努力 | |
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72
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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73
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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74
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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75
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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76
conducive
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| adj.有益的，有助的 | |
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intrepid
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| adj.无畏的，刚毅的 | |
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78
rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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80
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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81
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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82
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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83
cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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84
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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85
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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86
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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87
exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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88
emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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89
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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90
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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91
urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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92
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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93
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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94
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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95
schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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96
philologist
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| n.语言学者，文献学者 | |
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97
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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98
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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99
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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100
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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101
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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102
hurls
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的第三人称单数 )；大声叫骂 | |
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103
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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104
foretells
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的第三人称单数 ) | |
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105
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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106
subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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107
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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108
monotonous
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|
| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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109
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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110
dolts
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| n.笨蛋，傻瓜( dolt的名词复数 ) | |
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111
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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112
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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113
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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114
virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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115
pseudonym
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| n.假名，笔名 | |
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116
piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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117
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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118
chastely
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| adv.贞洁地，清高地，纯正地 | |
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119
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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120
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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121
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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122
yearns
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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123
perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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124
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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125
impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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126
homely
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|
| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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127
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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128
hideous
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|
| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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129
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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130
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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131
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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132
alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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133
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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134
consecrated
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|
| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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135
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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136
philology
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| n.语言学；语文学 | |
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137
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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138
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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139
charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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140
scrolls
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| n.（常用于录写正式文件的）纸卷( scroll的名词复数 )；卷轴；涡卷形（装饰）；卷形花纹v.（电脑屏幕上）从上到下移动（资料等），卷页( scroll的第三人称单数 )；（似卷轴般）卷起；（像展开卷轴般地）将文字显示于屏幕 | |
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141
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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142
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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143
itched
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| v.发痒( itch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
collate
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| vt.(仔细)核对，对照；(书籍装订前)整理 | |
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145
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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146
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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147
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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148
taxation
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| n.征税，税收，税金 | |
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149
deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
culminate
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|
| v.到绝顶，达于极点，达到高潮 | |
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151
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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152
precarious
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|
| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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153
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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154
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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155
tumults
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| 吵闹( tumult的名词复数 )； 喧哗； 激动的吵闹声； 心烦意乱 | |
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156
obligatory
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|
| adj.强制性的，义务的，必须的 | |
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157
recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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158
grooming
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| n. 修饰, 美容，（动物）梳理毛发 | |
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159
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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160
barricades
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| 路障，障碍物( barricade的名词复数 ) | |
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161
lissom
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|
| adj.柔软的，轻快而优雅的 | |
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162
craves
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| 渴望，热望( crave的第三人称单数 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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163
agitated
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|
| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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164
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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165
monarchy
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| n.君主，最高统治者；君主政体，君主国 | |
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166
paraphernalia
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| n.装备；随身用品 | |
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167
exalts
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| 赞扬( exalt的第三人称单数 )； 歌颂； 提升； 提拔 | |
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168
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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169
impoverishing
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|
| v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的现在分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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170
bankruptcy
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|
| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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171
aggravating
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|
| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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172
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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173
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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174
perfectly
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|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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175
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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176
economists
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| n.经济学家，经济专家( economist的名词复数 ) | |
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177
defenders
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| n.防御者( defender的名词复数 )；守卫者；保护者；辩护者 | |
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178
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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179
muskets
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| n.火枪，（尤指）滑膛枪( musket的名词复数 ) | |
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180
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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181
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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182
mince
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| n.切碎物；v.切碎，矫揉做作地说 | |
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183
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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184
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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185
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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186
jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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187
utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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188
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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189
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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190
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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191
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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192
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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193
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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194
pottery
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| n.陶器，陶器场 | |
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195
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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196
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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197
muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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198
permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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199
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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200
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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201
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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202
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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203
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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204
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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205
conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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206
blazon
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| n.纹章，装饰；精确描绘；v.广布；宣布 | |
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207
embellish
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| v.装饰，布置；给…添加细节，润饰 | |
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208
gild
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| vt.给…镀金，把…漆成金色，使呈金色 | |
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209
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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210
extolled
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| v.赞颂，赞扬，赞美( extol的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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211
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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212
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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213
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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214
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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215
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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216
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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217
impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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218
propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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219
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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220
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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221
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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222
negotiations
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| 协商( negotiation的名词复数 )； 谈判； 完成（难事）； 通过 | |
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223
intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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224
maxims
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| n.格言，座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
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225
jointly
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| ad.联合地，共同地 | |
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226
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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227
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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228
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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229
farces
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| n.笑剧( farce的名词复数 )；闹剧；笑剧剧目；作假的可笑场面 | |
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230
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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231
brandished
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| v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 )；炫耀 | |
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232
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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233
unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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