There was much that Baltazar had set himself to do during his three years. First he must make up in mathematical output the loss of his wander-time in China. Now all the world understands the irresistible12 force that compels the poet, at last, to give form to long haunting dreams; the need, also, of the astronomer13 to crystallize the results of his discoveries and formulate14 his epoch-making theories; but the passion of the mathematician15 to do the same is not so easily comprehensible. For years Baltazar had dreamed of an exhaustive and monumental treatise16 on the Theory of Groups which would revolutionize the study of the higher mathematics, a gorgeous vision the mere17 statement of which must leave the ordinary being cold and the first attempt at explanation petrify18 him with its icy unintelligibility19. The dream was now in process of accomplishment20. He had also to put into form fascinating adventures into the analytical21 geometry of the ghostly and unrealizable space of Four Dimensions. There, he was wont22 to assert, you entered the true Fairyland of mathematics. To all these labours he brought the enthusiasm of the poet or the astronomer. Another and a totally different sphere of activities absorbed much of his energy. In China he had assimilated a vast store of philosophical23 learning, with which equipment he prepared to re-edit many European versions of the Chinese classics misconceived through faulty erudition. He had brought from China stacks of rare manuscripts, piles of notes, materials for the life-work of any scholar. And, last, he had thrown himself with impetuous zeal24 into the intellectual training of Quong Ho.
The mutual25 attitude of the solitary26 pair was one of curious delicacy27. As master and man they were league-sundered by the gulf28 of convention. As teacher and pupil they were drawn29 together into close intellectual intimacy30. It was the Chinaman’s exquisite31 tact32 that simplified the situation for the direct and masterful Englishman. As a servant he scrupulously33 observed the decorum of the attendant—there never existed head butler in ducal mansion34 who could surpass his perfection of manner; but as disciple35 he subtly raised himself to the plane of social equality, and gauged36 to a hair’s breadth the shade of familiar address warranted by the position.
“Quong Ho,” said Baltazar one day at dinner, when the Chinaman had gone through the usual solemn farce37 of offering him Burgundy, “your discretion38 is beyond the value of rubies39. Never once have you remarked on the apparent vanity of this daily proceeding40. Yet in your own mind you must have wondered at it.”
“It is not for me to speculate on the reason for your honourable41 customs,” said Quong Ho.
“Yet why do you think I cause myself to be offered wine every day only to refuse it?”
“I suppose you desire to maintain, in the wilderness42, the ceremonial etiquette43 of the English dinner-table. The wine in the bottle is but an adornment44, like the flowers in the bowl.”
“It pleases me that you should have come to such a conclusion,” said Baltazar.
For the ceremony of the wine was linked with the causes that determined45 his sudden flight into solitude46. He had promised Quong Ho to inform him of these causes; but the fulfilment of the promise was hard to make. Sitting dishevelled on the bed in the little room at the top of the Savoy Hotel, he had thought disclosure to his servant to be a fitting part of the punishment he had meted47 out to himself. Later he repented48; especially when he perceived Quong Ho’s blank indifference49. Still, a promise was a promise, and Baltazar not the man to shirk his obligations. On this particular occasion he thought it best to get the matter over.
“The conclusion is an honourable one on your part, Quong Ho,” he continued, “but it is incorrect.”
“It was over-indulgence in wine that made me set to myself this penalty of studious solitude,” said Baltazar in Chinese. “By telling you this I redeem52 a promise. As to our daily custom, a weak man flies from temptation, a strong man keeps temptation at his elbow in order to defy it.”
“In that way, honourable master, is merit acquired.”
Quong Ho took away his empty plate and retired53 into the kitchen to fetch the next course. Baltazar leaned back in his chair and, his brow full of perplexity, yet breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’ve got it off my chest at last,” he said half aloud. “But I wonder whether I’ve been a damned fool.”
Quong Ho’s subsequent demeanour could not enlighten him. Never again between them, save once, and that under the stress of a peculiar54 situation, was made the most veiled allusion55 to the subject, and day after day Quong Ho imperturbably56 performed with the Burgundy decanter the ceremonial etiquette of the English dinner-table.
It was only by glimpses like this that the man had ever revealed himself to his fellow-creatures. Glimpses like this one, fine and deliberate, to Quong Ho, and that one of long ago, passionate57 and self-destroying, to Marcelle Baring. To neither did he accord more than a glimpse. To neither did he show himself on a razor-edged ledge58 with the abyss on one side and salvation59 on the other. Another touch of the girl’s lips would have sent them both into what the sensitive and honourable gentleman would have called the abyss. Perhaps, if she had been older, a woman, one tuned60 to the pulsating61 responsibilities of life, he might have faced things with her. Who knows? To his direct mind the casuistical point did not occur. Actualities alone concerned him. She was so delicate and fragrant62 a flower of girlhood. His for the plucking. . . . When he regained63 his college rooms, that far-off summer afternoon, he was as a man torn by devils. Love her? He would be torn in pieces rather than that her exquisite foot should be bruised64 against a stone. Love her? With her soft voice, her maddening Madonna face, her kind eyes, her tremulous mouth? Love her? The wonder of wonders possessed65 of the power to divine his inmost thoughts, to touch with magically healing fingers all the aching wounds in his soul, to envelop66 him body and mind and spirit in a network of a myriad67 fairy tendrils? Love her? God knows he did.
But she was a child—and a child can forget—at the worst retain a not ungracious memory. But he was a man, on the verge68 of hideous69 villainy. And he stood in his college room, surrounded by all that symbolized70 the intellectual life that up to then had been the meaning of his existence, and he looked around.
“The whole lot will have to go to blazes,” said he.
And at that moment he cut the Gordian knot.
His wife? She hated him: why, he could not tell; but she missed few opportunities of showing her rancour. He had striven desperately71 to win her esteem72, at the cost of much swallowed pride. Some months had passed since the last pitiable reconciliation73. . . . Why had he married her? It had not been for lack of warning. Perhaps the very traducing74 of her had spurred him on. She was so fair and fragile, so pathetic in her widowhood. A clamour of the senses, a prompting of chivalry75, and the thing was done. And she, widow of a phlegmatic76 don of Trinity, living in Cambridge, was perhaps carried away by the glamour77 surrounding the coming man in that tiny, academic world.
“I wish you were dead,” were the last words he had heard her utter. He snapped his fingers. She could have her desire.
Baltazar packed his bag with necessaries, told his gyp that business called him to London for some days, and left Cambridge forever. A month afterwards he was on his way, under an assumed name, to China.
The act of a fool perhaps. But has not one who knew called him the Fool of Genius? Anyhow he had the courage and the wit to cut his life off clean. The life of John Baltazar of Cambridge and that of James Burden who, having landed at Shanghai, spent so many adventurous78 years in the heart of China, might have been lived by two individuals who had never heard of each other. That disappearance79 from England was the first start, the consequence of the first violent fit. The first that mattered.
But there had been others. To one, his mind went back even as he asked himself whether his confession80 to Quong Ho had been the proceeding of an idiot. It had to do with the selfsame subject of that confession. The period went back to his last undergraduate term, when he was as certain of being Senior Wrangler81 as a Cardinal82 of being the best theologian in a scratch company of parish priests. Carrying on to the beginning of term an end of vacation revel83, Baltazar took to evil courses. The slander84 which, reported to young Godfrey Baltazar, Marcelle Baring had so vehemently85 denied, had its basis in truth. He had discovered alcohol, and for a time plunged86, with his whole-souled fervour, into his discovery. Then, one Spooner, the next in the Tripos running, a man living entirely87 on his scholarships, a mild and pallid88 man of no physical value whom the lusty Baltazar, after the way of vivid and immature89 young men, despised, had the grand audacity90 to call on him and expostulate with him on his excesses. Baltazar listened breathless. The fellow ought to be going round with a show of freaks. He told him so. Spooner waved aside the proposition and went on with his main argument.
“You have every right to be Senior. There’s not one of us in it with you. But if you go on playing the fool like this, anything may happen.”
“That’s all to your personal advantage, my dear good missionary,” said Baltazar.
“You don’t seem to understand why I’ve come here,” replied Spooner. “I don’t want to be Senior just because a man who’s infinitely91 better than I is a drunken sot.”
And they talked and bandied words a little, and then Baltazar saw himself face to face with an exquisite soul. He gripped the lean shoulders of the undeveloped, spectacled young man with his big hands.
“I swear to God,” said he, “that I’ll not touch a drop of alcohol for the next five years.”
But he also swore to himself an oath of which Spooner was ignorant. He swore that Spooner should be Senior. And he kept both vows93. In the last day’s Problem Paper he deliberately94 sacrificed himself. As a matter of fact he just overdid95 it, for, to the mystification of all concerned in the Tripos, he was placed third. But Spooner had the coveted96 distinction. The Tripos over, everything fell before Baltazar, and he was acknowledged the supreme97 mathematician of his year, and, in the course of time, the greatest of his generation.
The difficulty, owing to its episodical character, of presenting the early career of Baltazar, thus finds illustration. One might go back to schoolboy days and point to lapses98 from grace, followed by similar swift and ruthless decisions. To catalogue them all would require the patient tediousness of formal biography. Apart from such a process, his life up to his flight into the moorland wilderness can best be pictured by a series of flashes.
A sudden disgust with China and an overwhelming nostalgia99 for the sweeter political life of England drove him home after eighteen years. The greater part of the time he had spent in the impenetrable heart of the vast country, speaking many dialects as well as the classical Wen-Li of the learned, an encyclop?dia of erudition, saturated100 with intimate knowledge of Chinese custom and observance, a Chinaman in all but physical appearance, dressing101, living, acting102 and accepted universally as a Chinaman, prospering103 as a Chinaman too in financial undertakings104. It was old China that he entered, a land stable in its peculiar civilization which, in spite of many traditional oppressions and time-sanctioned cruelties, had its fascination105 and grace—the gift to a Mandarin106 of a precious and much-coveted ancient manuscript had purchased the life of a boy, Li Quong Ho, condemned107 to elaborate death for a venial108 offence, the transaction being carried out in an atmosphere of high refinement109, and scented110 tea served and drunk with exquisite punctilio. It was old China that he had learned to love, with its sense of beauty, its reverence111 for learning, its profound ethical112 philosophy. But it was a new China, convulsed with new ideas, bloodthirsty, treacherous113, unstable114 to maddening point, that he had quitted in his sudden and determined way.
For eighteen years, in the interior of China, he had lived remote from European politics. He had sunk himself in the lore115, and identified himself with the interests, of that ancient land. With no correspondence, beyond the reach of newspapers, he all but forgot the existence of Europe. Meeting his fellow-countrymen on the homeward voyage, he shunned116 them, partly through shyness, partly through distaste for the brusqueness of their manners, the high pitch of their voices, their colossal117 ignorance of the country with which they boasted such contemptuous familiarity, the narrowness of their outlook, the petty materialism118 of their conversation. He held himself aloof119, longing120 for the real England at the end of the voyage.
In London, the loneliest soul in the great city, he set himself to pick up the threads of the life around him. He walked the familiar and unwelcoming streets, at first dazed by the motor traction121, then bewildered by evidences of the luxury which eighteen years of decadence122 had engendered123. He visited new palaces of entertainment and came away wondering. In fashionable supper-rooms he saw the flower of the land dancing to what, as a scholar, he knew to be West African sexual rhythms. He could not understand. What were they doing, or trying to do? He would sit lonely at a table, a formally ordered drink before him, at one of these great public haunts, and try to get the key to the mystery. The decay of manners offended him. He discounted the fact that he had lived so many intense years in the land of sacred ceremonial; he wiped that out of his mind, and recalled the standard of his own youth. The exiguity124 of feminine apparel shocked his unaccustomed eyes; in many cases nothing from waist up but a sort of low palisade, scarcely concealing125 the bust126. Was he not mistaken? Was this not rather the scum than the flower of modern England? But at neighbouring tables he had overheard attention being directed to bearers of proud and historic names. Then he asked himself the question: had he frequented such places eighteen years ago? Had they not been outside the sphere of his narrow academic life? He desired to judge justly. When did he leave England? In 1896. And his bachelor days, with their joyous127 London jaunts128, had ended in 1894. There was no such social life then: if there had been, he would have heard of it. In the afternoons, too, these young men and maidens129 danced their weird130 dances.
Outside, the land was a-clamour with the doings of a sterner sisterhood. Processions, mass meetings, virago131 riotings, picture slashings, incendiarism, bombs, formed the features of their astounding132 crusade. The newspapers, beyond the recounting of facts, with vivid descriptions of sensational133 scenes, gave him little information as to the philosophy of the movement. Politically the country seemed to be in a state of chaotic134 turmoil135. Persons holding high office were publicly accused of corrupt136 financial practices. Parliament wrangled137 fiercely with the Army over an opéra bouffe condition of Irish affairs. Beneath all this Labour uttered volcanic138 threatenings. Subversive139 ideas, new to him, such as syndicalism, were in the air. Unintelligible140 criticisms of picture exhibitions urged his curious steps to the indicated galleries, where he came upon canvases that made his brain reel. A new Rip Van Winkle, he had awakened to a mad world, a world even more perilously141 unstable than the China which he had left.
The solitary scholar found himself disastrously142 out of sympathy with it all. He had planned to give himself a month’s holiday in London before settling down, in some quiet and comfortable suburb, to the many years’ work that lay before him on the materials he had brought from China. He had formed no intention whatever of cutting himself off from communion with his fellow-men. Indeed, he meant, as soon as he could rid himself of the complications of his assumed name, to proclaim himself unobtrusively to the world as John Baltazar. Before coming finally to this decision, however, he must learn what had become of his wife, as he had no desire to play the disconcerting part of a tactless Enoch Arden. His first step on arriving at London had been to institute, through a firm of solicitors143, discreet144 enquiries. He learned that his wife had been dead for thirteen years. He was at liberty to become John Baltazar again as soon as he liked. But in London, as James Burden, he stayed at the Savoy Hotel, a bewildered and disillusioned145 spectator of the modern world.
How did the catastrophe146 happen? Thinking over it, as he often thought with shivers of disgust, in his moorland retreat, he could scarcely give an answer. Only once, since his interview with the audacious Spooner, had he given way to an overmastering impulse—and that was on his journey out to Shanghai. Anti-climax, in the shape of sudden storm and sea-sickness, cured him, and he vowed147 total abstinence all the time he should be in China; and he kept his vow92. Perhaps, here in London, unaccustomed idleness and his disgust-filled loneliness drove him gradually and insensibly to the consolation148 of alcohol. The odd drinks during the day increased in number. He viewed a rosier149 London after a quart of old Burgundy at dinner. To sit in a crowded cosmopolitan150 café became his evening amusement, and the continuous consumption of brandies and soda151 aided indulgent observation. He had given himself his month’s holiday, and he meant to have it, no matter how joyless and unsympathetic was the holiday atmosphere. Now and then, in these popular resorts he picked casual acquaintanceship with a neighbour. He had the gift of making his companion’s conversation intelligent and interesting. On these occasions he drank less.
But one solitary night intoxication152 for the first time overcame him. He realized it with a feeling of anger. The lights were just being lowered. He ordered a double liqueur brandy, in the crazy assurance that it would pull him together. Of what happened afterwards he had little memory. In the crowded street someone laid hold of him and, resentful of attack, he turned and smote153 his supporter. To complete the outrage154, a policeman handled him roughly, a proceeding which he also violently resented. Then a whirl of lights and darkness and lights again, and strange faces and once more darkness absolute and final, until he awoke and found himself sober and shivering in a police cell. A few hours afterwards, James Burden, of no occupation, living at the Savoy Hotel, was fined forty shillings or a month for being drunk and disorderly in Leicester Square.
If it had been a magnificent folly155, a royal debauch156, a voluptuous157 orgy of roses and wine and laughter and song and the pulsating lustiness of life, the dulce periculum of the follower158 of the Len?an one brow-bound with green vine-leaves, he might have held himself in some measure excused. He had made no vow, he had no reason, to spurn159 the joyousness160 of existence. He was a man of racing161 blood, with claim and right to the gladness of physical things. But this sordid162, solitary bout163 with its end of vulgarity and degradation164, filled him with a horror almost maddening in its fierceness. His soul shrivelled at the ghastly humiliation165. That it should come upon him; him, John Baltazar, with half a century of clean life behind him; him, John Baltazar, the man who had compelled high honour for intellect and character from his childhood days, at a Public School, at the University, as an unknown and prejudice-surrounded foreigner in the strangest of alien lands; that it should come upon him seemed like a phantasma or a hideous dream.
And then it fell that he once more cut the Gordian knot. He would fly from a world in which he had proved himself not fit to live cleanly, with all the less reluctance166 because he had found it incomprehensible and unattractive. And sitting dishevelled on the bed, he informed Quong Ho of his decision. As soon as he had cleansed167 himself from the soil of the awful night, he left the Savoy and the dishonoured168 name of James Burden for ever, and took rooms at another hotel for the night as John Baltazar. The next day he threw himself vehemently into the quest of a hermitage. He remembered a desolate169 waste of moorland through which on a walking tour he had rambled170 in his undergraduate days.
“It may be, Quong Ho,” said he, “that it is built over with picture palaces and swarming171 with tango-dancers. Any conceivable happening to England during the last twenty years is possible. But we’ll go and see.”
“I am unacquainted, sir,” replied Quong Ho, “with the dancers you mention; but I have visited picture palaces during the fortnight we have spent in your wonderful country, and, rightly exercised, the cinematograph strikes me as being the most marvellous vehicle for the propaganda of civilization that the world has seen.”
“Quong Ho,” said Baltazar, “it is not in our contract to care one little tuppenny damn for the propaganda of civilization. You’re not going to waste your time at one of those futile172 and ill-conceived, although ingenious, entertainments for the next three years. If the particular region I have in view is not satisfactory, we shall find another.”
Presently he added, in a tone of compunction—he was dressing while Quong Ho packed:
“I’m sorry I’ve had to cut short the time I intended you to have in London. I badly wanted you to have some general idea of it.”
“Sir,” replied Quong Ho, “without wishing to boast, I have grasped London. I could find my way blindfolded173 from here to the Tower, the House of Parliaments, the North End Road, Fulham, and that imperishable objective record of your honourable nation’s history, the museum of Madame Tussaud.”
“All the points you have mentioned, Quong Ho,” said Baltazar, “are of undoubted value—except the North End Road, Fulham. What the devil could you find of interest in that drab region of nowhere?”
Quong Ho’s usually smiling and mobile face became an expressionless mask.
“It marked the end of my peregrination174 in that direction,” he replied.
“It strikes me,” said Baltazar, “that it’s time you peregrinated to a more God-swept and intellectual atmosphere.”
Three weeks afterwards they took up their residence at Spendale Farm.
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1
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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5
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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7
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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10
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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astronomer
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| n.天文学家 | |
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formulate
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| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
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mathematician
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| n.数学家 | |
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treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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petrify
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| vt.使发呆；使…变成化石 | |
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unintelligibility
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| 不可懂度，不清晰性 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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analytical
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| adj.分析的；用分析法的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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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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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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gauged
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| adj.校准的；标准的；量规的；量计的v.（用仪器）测量( gauge的过去式和过去分词 )；估计；计量；划分 | |
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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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39
rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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40
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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41
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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42
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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43
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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44
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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45
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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46
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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47
meted
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| v.（对某人）施以，给予（处罚等）( mete的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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50
conjectural
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| adj.推测的 | |
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51
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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52
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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53
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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54
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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55
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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56
imperturbably
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| adv.泰然地，镇静地，平静地 | |
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57
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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58
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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59
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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60
tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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61
pulsating
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| adj.搏动的，脉冲的v.有节奏地舒张及收缩( pulsate的现在分词 )；跳动；脉动；受（激情）震动 | |
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62
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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63
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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64
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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65
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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66
envelop
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| vt.包，封，遮盖；包围 | |
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67
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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68
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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69
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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70
symbolized
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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72
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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73
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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74
traducing
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| v.诋毁( traduce的现在分词 )；诽谤；违反；背叛 | |
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75
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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76
phlegmatic
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|
| adj.冷静的，冷淡的，冷漠的，无活力的 | |
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77
glamour
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|
| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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78
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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79
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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80
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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81
wrangler
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|
| n.口角者，争论者；牧马者 | |
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82
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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83
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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84
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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85
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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86
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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87
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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88
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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89
immature
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| adj.未成熟的，发育未全的，未充分发展的 | |
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90
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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91
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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92
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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93
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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94
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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95
overdid
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去式 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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96
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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97
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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98
lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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99
nostalgia
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| n.怀乡病，留恋过去，怀旧 | |
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100
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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101
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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102
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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103
prospering
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的现在分词 ) | |
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104
undertakings
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| 企业( undertaking的名词复数 )； 保证； 殡仪业； 任务 | |
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105
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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106
Mandarin
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| n.中国官话，国语，满清官吏；adj.华丽辞藻的 | |
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107
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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108
venial
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| adj.可宽恕的；轻微的 | |
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109
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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110
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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111
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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112
ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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113
treacherous
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|
| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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114
unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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115
lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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116
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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118
materialism
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| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
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119
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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120
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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121
traction
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| n.牵引；附着摩擦力 | |
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122
decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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123
engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
exiguity
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| n.些须，微小，稀少 | |
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125
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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126
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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127
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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128
jaunts
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| n.游览( jaunt的名词复数 ) | |
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129
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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130
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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131
virago
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| n.悍妇 | |
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132
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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133
sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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134
chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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135
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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136
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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137
wrangled
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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139
subversive
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| adj.颠覆性的，破坏性的；n.破坏份子，危险份子 | |
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140
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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141
perilously
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| adv.充满危险地，危机四伏地 | |
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142
disastrously
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| ad.灾难性地 | |
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143
solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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144
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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145
disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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146
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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147
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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148
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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149
rosier
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| Rosieresite | |
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150
cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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151
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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152
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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153
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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154
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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155
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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156
debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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157
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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158
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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159
spurn
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| v.拒绝，摈弃；n.轻视的拒绝；踢开 | |
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160
joyousness
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| 快乐，使人喜悦 | |
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161
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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162
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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163
bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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164
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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165
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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166
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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167
cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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168
dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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169
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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170
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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171
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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172
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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173
blindfolded
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| v.（尤指用布）挡住（某人）的视线( blindfold的过去式 )；蒙住（某人）的眼睛；使不理解；蒙骗 | |
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174
peregrination
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| n.游历，旅行 | |
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