"It does not appear that the age thought his works worthy1 of posterity2, nor that this great poet himself levied3 any ideal tribute on future times, or had any further prospect4 than of present popularity and present profit. So careless was he, indeed, of fame, that, when he retired5 to ease and plenty, while he was yet little declined into the vale of years, and before he could be disgusted with fatigue6 or disabled by infirmity, he desired only that in this rural quiet he who had so long mazed7 his imagination by following phantoms8 might at last be cured of his delirious9 ecstasies10, and as a hermit11 might estimate the transactions of the world."
Now my charms are all o'erthrown,
And what strength I have's my own,
Which is most faint.
Now I want
And my ending is despair,
Unless I be relieved by prayer,
Which pierces so, that it assaults
Mercy itself, and frees all faults.
As you from crimes would pardon'd be,
Let your indulgence set me free.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.—Epilogue to The Tempest.
He was hoping, while his fingers drummed in unison13 with the beat of his verse, that this last play at least would rouse enthusiasm in the pit. The welcome given its immediate14 predecessors15 had undeniably been tepid16. A memorandum17 at his elbow of the receipts at the Globe for the last quarter showed this with disastrous18 bluntness; and, after all, in 1609 a shareholder19 in a theater, when writing dramas for production there, was ordinarily subject to more claims than those of his ideals.
He sat in a neglected garden whose growth was in reversion to primal20 habits. The season was September, the sky a uniform and temperate21 blue. A peachtree, laden22 past its strength with fruitage, made about him with its boughs23 a sort of tent. The grass around his writing-table was largely hidden by long, crinkled peach leaves—some brown and others gray as yet—and was dotted with a host of brightly-colored peaches. Fidgeting bees and flies were excavating24 the decayed spots in this wasting fruit, from which emanated25 a vinous odor. The bees hummed drowsily26, their industry facilitating idleness in others. It was curious—he meditated27, his thoughts straying from "an uninhabited island"—how these insects alternated in color between brown velvet28 and silver, as they blundered about a flickering30 tessellation of amber31 and dark green… in search of rottenness.…
He frowned. Here was an arid32 forenoon as imagination went. A seasoned plagiarist33 by this, he opened a book which lay upon the table among several others and duly found the chapter entitled Of the Cannibals.
"So, so!" he said aloud. "'It is a nation,' would I answer Plato, 'that has no kind of traffic, no knowledge of letters——'" And with that he sat about reshaping Montaigne's conceptions of Utopia into verse. He wrote—while his left hand held the book flat—as orderly as any county-clerk might do in the recordance of a deed of sale.
Midcourse in larceny35, he looked up from writing. He saw a tall, dark lady who was regarding him half-sorrowfully and half as in the grasp of some occult amusement. He said nothing. He released the telltale book. His eyebrows37 lifted, banteringly. He rose.
He found it characteristic of her that she went silently to the table and compared the printed page with what he had just written. "So nowadays you have turned pickpocket38? My poet, you have altered."
He said: "Why, yes. When you broke off our friendship, I paid you the expensive compliment of falling very ill. They thought that I would die. They tell me even to-day I did not die. I almost question it." He shrugged39. "And to-day I must continue to write plays, because I never learned any other trade. And so, at need, I pilfer40." The topic did not seem much to concern him.
"Eh, and such plays!" the woman cried. "My poet, there was a time when you created men and women as glibly41 as Heaven does. Now you make sugar-candy dolls."
"The last comedies were not all I could have wished," he assented42. "In fact, I got only some L30 clear profit."
"There speaks the little tradesman I most hated of all persons living!" the woman sighed. Now, as in impatience43, she thrust back her traveling-hood and stood bare-headed.
Then she stayed silent,—tall, extraordinarily44 pallid45, and with dark, steady eyes. Their gaze by ordinary troubled you, as seeming to hint some knowledge to your belittlement46. The playmaker remembered that. Now he, a reputable householder, was wondering what would be the upshot of this intrusion. His visitor, as he was perfectly48 aware, had little patience with such moments of life as could not be made dramatic.… He was recollecting49 many trifles, now his mind ran upon old times.… No, no, reflection assured him, to call her beautiful would be, and must always have been, an exaggeration; but to deny the exotic and somewhat sinister50 charm of her, even to-day, would be an absurdity51.
She said, abruptly52: "I do not think I ever loved you as women love men. You were too anxious to associate with fine folk, too eager to secure a patron—yes, and to get your profit of him—and you were always ill-at-ease among us. Our youth is so long past, and we two are so altered that we, I think, may speak of its happenings now without any bitterness. I hated those sordid53, petty traits. I raged at your incessant54 pretensions55 to gentility because I knew you to be so much more than a gentleman. Oh, it infuriated me—how long ago it was!—to see you cringing56 to the Court blockheads, and running their errands, and smirkingly57 pocketing their money, and wheedling58 them into helping59 the new play to success. You complained I treated you like a lackey60; it was not unnatural61 when of your own freewill you played the lackey so assiduously."
He laughed. He had anatomized himself too frequently and with too much dispassion to overlook whatever tang of snobbishness62 might be in him; and, moreover, the charge thus tendered became in reality the speaker's apology, and hurt nobody's self-esteem.
"Faith, I do not say you are altogether in the wrong," he assented. "They could be very useful to me—Pembroke, and Southampton, and those others—and so I endeavored to render my intimacy63 acceptable. It was my business as a poet to make my play as near perfect as I could; and this attended to, common-sense demanded of the theater-manager that he derive64 as much money as was possible from its representation. What would you have? The man of letters, like the carpenter or the blacksmith, must live by the vending65 of his productions, not by the eating of them." The woman waved this aside.
She paced the grass in meditation66, the peach leaves brushing her proud head—caressingly, it seemed to him. Later she came nearer in a brand-new mood. She smiled now, and her voice was musical and thrilled with wonder. "But what a poet Heaven had locked inside this little parasite67! It used to puzzle me." She laughed, and ever so lightly. "Eh, and did you never understand why by preference I talked with you at evening from my balcony? It was because I could forget you then entirely68. There was only a voice in the dark. There was a sorcerer at whose bidding words trooped like a conclave69 of emperors, and now sang like a bevy70 of linnets. And wit and fancy and high aspirations71 and my love—because I knew then that your love for me was splendid and divine—these also were my sorcerer's potent72 allies. I understood then how glad and awed73 were those fabulous74 Greekish queens when a god wooed them. Yes, then I understood. How long ago it seems!"
"Yes, yes," he sighed. "In that full-blooded season was Guenevere a lass, I think, and Charlemagne was not yet in breeches."
"And when there was a new play enacted75 I was glad. For it was our play that you and I had polished the last line of yesterday, and all these people wept and laughed because of what we had done. And I was proud——" The lady shrugged impatiently. "Proud, did I say? and glad? That attests76 how woefully I fall short of you, my poet. You would have found some magic phrase to make that ancient glory articulate, I know. Yet,—did I ever love you? I do not know that. I only know I sometimes fear you robbed me of the power of loving any other man."
He raised one hand in deprecation. "I must remind you," he cried, whimsically, "that a burnt child dreads77 even to talk of fire."
Her response was a friendly nod. She came yet nearer. "What," she demanded, and her smile was elfish, "what if I had lied to you? What if I were hideously78 tired of my husband, that bluff79, stolid80 captain? What if I wanted you to plead with me as in the old time?"
He said: "Until now you were only a woman. Oh, and now, my dear, you are again that resistless gipsy who so merrily beguiled81 me to the very heart of loss. You are Love. You are Youth. You are Comprehension. You are all that I have had, and lost, and vainly hunger for. Here in this abominable82 village, there is no one who understands—not even those who are more dear to me than you are. I know. I only spoil good paper which might otherwise be profitably used to wrap herrings in, they think. They give me ink and a pen just as they would give toys to a child who squalled for them too obstinately83. And Poesy is a thrifty84 oracle85 with no words to waste upon the deaf, however loudly her interpreter cry out to her. Oh, I have hungered for you, my proud, dark lady!" the playmaker said.
Afterward86 they stood quite silent. She was not unmoved by his outcry; and for this very reason was obscurely vexed88 by the reflection that it would be the essay of a braver man to remedy, rather than to lament89, his circumstances. And then the moment's rapture90 failed him.
"I am a sorry fool," he said; and lightly he ran on: "You are a skilful91 witch. Yet you have raised the ghost of an old madness to no purpose. You seek a master-poet? You will find none here. Perhaps I was one once. But most of us are poets of one sort or another when we love. Do you not understand? To-day I do not love you any more than I do Hecuba. Is it not strange that I should tell you this and not be moved at all? Is it not laughable that we should stand here at the last, two feet apart as things physical go, and be as profoundly severed92 as if an ocean tumbled between us?"
He fell to walking to and fro, his hands behind his back. She waited, used as she was to his unstable93 temperament94, a trifle puzzled. Presently he spoke95:
"There was a time when a master-poet was needed. He was found—nay,—rather made. Fate hastily caught up a man not very different from the run of men—one with a taste for stringing phrases and with a comedy or so to his discredit96. Fate merely bid him love a headstrong child newly released from the nursery."
"We know her well enough," she said. "The girl was faithless, and tyrannous, and proud, and coquettish, and unworthy, and false, and inconstant. She was black as hell and dark as night in both her person and her living. You were not niggardly97 of vituperation."
And he grimaced98. "Faith," he replied, "but sonnets99 are a more natural form of expression than affidavits100, and they are made effective by compliance101 with different rules. I find no flagrant fault with you to-day. You were a child of seventeen, the darling of a noble house, and an actor—yes, and not even a pre-eminent actor—a gross, poor posturing102 vagabond, just twice your age, presumed to love you. What child would not amuse herself with such engaging toys? Vivacity103 and prettiness and cruelty are the ordinary attributes of kittenhood. So you amused yourself. And I submitted with clear eyes, because I could not help it. Yes, I who am by nature not disposed to underestimate my personal importance—I submitted, because your mockery was more desirable than the adoration104 of any other woman. And all this helped to make a master-poet of me. Eh, why not, when such monstrous105 passions spoke through me—as if some implacable god elected to play godlike music on a mountebank's lute106? And I made admirable plays. Why not, when there was no tragedy more poignant107 than mine?—and where in any comedy was any figure one-half so ludicrous as mine? Ah, yes, Fate gained her ends, as always."
He was a paunchy, inconsiderable little man. By ordinary his elongated108 features and high, bald forehead loaned him an aspect of serene109 and axiom-based wisdom, much as we see him in his portraits; but now his countenance110 was flushed and mobile. Odd passions played about it, as when on a sullen111 night in August summer lightnings flicker29 and merge112.
His voice had found another cadence113. "But Fate was not entirely ruthless. Fate bade the child become a woman, and so grow tired of all her childhood's playthings. This was after a long while, as we estimate happenings.… I suffered then. Yes, I went down to the doors of death, as people say, in my long illness. But that crude, corporal fever had a providential thievishness; and not content with stripping me of health and strength,—not satisfied with pilfering114 inventiveness and any strong hunger to create—why, that insatiable fever even robbed me of my insanity115. I lived. I was only a broken instrument flung by because the god had wearied of playing. I would give forth116 no more heart-wringing music, for the musician had departed. And I still lived—I, the stout117 little tradesman whom you loathed118. Yes, that tradesman scrambled119 through these evils, somehow, and came out still able to word adequately all such imaginings as could be devised by his natural abilities. But he transmitted no more heart-wringing music."
She said, "You lie!"
He said, "I thank Heaven daily that I do not." He spoke the truth. She knew it, and her heart was all rebellion.
Indefatigable120 birds sang through the following hush121. A wholesome122 and temperate breeze caressed123 these silent people. Bees that would die to-morrow hummed about them tirelessly.
Then the poet said: "I loved you; and you did not love me. It is the most commonplace of tragedies, the heart of every man alive has been wounded in this identical fashion. A master-poet is only that wounded man—among so many other bleeding folk—who perversely124 augments126 his agony, and utilizes127 his wound as an inkwell. Presently time scars over the cut for him, as time does for all the others. He does not suffer any longer. No, and such relief is a clear gain; but none the less, he must henceforward write with ordinary ink such as the lawyers use."
"I should have been the man," the woman cried. "Had I been sure of fame, could I have known those raptures128 when you used to gabble immortal129 phrases like a stammering130 infant, I would have paid the price without all this whimpering."
"Faith, and I think you would have," he assented. "There is the difference. At bottom I am a creature of the most moderate aspirations, as you always complained; and for my part, Fate must in reason demand her applause of posterity rather than of me. For I regret the unlived life that I was meant for—the comfortable level life of little happenings which all my schoolfellows have passed through in a stolid drove. I was equipped to live that life with relish131, and that life only; and it was denied me. It was demolished132 in order that a book or two be made out of its wreckage133."
She said, with half-shut eyes: "There is a woman at the root of all this." And how he laughed!
"Did I not say you were a witch? Why, most assuredly there is."
He motioned with his left hand. Some hundred yards away a young man, who was carrying two logs toward New Place, had paused to rest. A girl was with him. Now laughingly she was pretending to assist the porter in lifting his burden. It was a quaintly134 pretty vignette, as framed by the peach leaves, because those two young people were so merry and so candidly135 in love. A symbolist might have wrung136 pathos137 out of the girl's desire to aid, as set against her fond inadequacy138; and the attendant playwright139 made note of it.
"Well, well!" he said: "Young Quiney is a so-so choice, since women must necessarily condescend140 to intermarrying with men. But he is far from worthy of her. Tell me, now, was there ever a rarer piece of beauty?"
"The wench is not ill-favored," was the dark lady's unenthusiastic answer. "So!—but who is she?"
He replied: "She is my daughter. Yonder you see my latter muse36 for whose dear sake I spin romances. I do not mean that she takes any lively interest in them. That is not to be expected, since she cannot read or write. Ask her about the poet we were discussing, and I very much fear Judith will bluntly inform you she cannot tell a B from a bull's foot. But one must have a muse of some sort or another; and so I write about the world now as Judith sees it. My Judith finds this world an eminently141 pleasant place. It is full of laughter and kindliness—for could Herod be unkind to her?—and it is largely populated by ardent142 young fellows who are intended chiefly to be twisted about your fingers; and it is illuminated143 by sunlight whose real purpose is to show how pretty your hair is. And if affairs go badly for a while, and you have done nothing very wrong—why, of course, Heaven will soon straighten matters satisfactorily. For nothing that happens to us can possibly be anything except a benefit, because God orders all happenings, and God loves us. There you have Judith's creed144; and upon my word, I believe there is a great deal to be said for it."
"And this is you," she cried—"you who wrote of Troilus and Timon!"
"I lived all that," he replied—"I lived it, and so for a long while I believed in the existence of wickedness. To-day I have lost many illusions, madam, and that ranks among them. I never knew a wicked person. I question if anybody ever did. Undoubtedly145 short-sighted people exist who have floundered into ill-doing; but it proves always to have been on account of either cowardice146 or folly147, and never because of malevolence148; and, in consequence, their sorry pickle149 should demand commiseration150 far more loudly than our blame. In short, I find humanity to be both a weaker and a better-meaning race than I had suspected. And so, I make what you call 'sugar-candy dolls,' because I very potently151 believe that all of us are sweet at heart. Oh no! men lack an innate152 aptitude153 for sinning; and at worst, we frenziedly attempt our misdemeanors just as a sheep retaliates154 on its pursuers. This much, at least, has Judith taught me."
The woman murmured: "Eh, you are luckier than I. I had a son. He was borne of my anguish155, he was fed and tended by me, and he was dependent on me in all things." She said, with a half-sob, "My poet, he was so little and so helpless! Now he is dead."
"My dear, my dear!" he cried, and he took both her hands. "I also had a son. He would have been a man by this."
They stood thus for a while. And then he smiled.
"I ask your pardon. I had forgotten that you hate to touch my hands. I know—they are too moist and flabby. I always knew that you thought that. Well! Hamnet died. I grieved. That is a trivial thing to say. But you also have seen your own flesh lying in a coffin156 so small that even my soft hands could lift it. So you will comprehend. To-day I find that the roughest winds abate157 with time. Hatred158 and self-seeking and mischance and, above all, the frailties159 innate in us—these buffet160 us for a while, and we are puzzled, and we demand of God, as Job did, why is this permitted? And then as the hair dwindles161, the wit grows."
"Oh, yes, with age we take a slackening hold upon events; we let all happenings go by more lightly; and we even concede the universe not to be under any actual bond to be intelligible162. Yes, that is true. But is it gain, my poet? for I had thought it to be loss."
"With age we gain the priceless certainty that sorrow and injustice163 are ephemeral. Solvitur ambulando, my dear. I have attested164 this merely by living long enough. I, like any other man of my years, have in my day known more or less every grief which the world breeds; and each maddened me in turn, as each was duly salved by time; so that to-day their ravages165 vex87 me no more than do the bee-stings I got when I was an urchin166. To-day I grant the world to be composed of muck and sunshine intermingled; but, upon the whole, I find the sunshine more pleasant to look at, and—greedily, because my time for sightseeing is not very long—I stare at it. And I hold Judith's creed to be the best of all imaginable creeds—that if we do nothing very wrong, all human imbroglios167, in some irrational168 and quite incomprehensible fashion, will be straightened to our satisfaction. Meanwhile, you also voice a tonic169 truth—this universe of ours, and, reverently170 speaking, the Maker47 of this universe as well, is under no actual bond to be intelligible in dealing171 with us." He laughed at this season and fell into a lighter172 tone. "Do I preach like a little conventicle-attending tradesman? Faith, you must remember that when I talk gravely Judith listens as if it were an oracle discoursing173. For Judith loves me as the wisest and the best of men. I protest her adoration frightens me. What if she were to find me out?"
"I loved what was divine in you," the woman answered.
"Oddly enough, that is the perfect truth! And when what was divine in me had burned a sufficiency of incense174 to your vanity, your vanity's owner drove off in a fine coach and left me to die in a garret. Then Judith came. Then Judith nursed and tended and caressed me—and Judith only in all the world!—as once you did that boy you spoke of. Ah, madam, and does not sorrow sometimes lie awake o' nights in the low cradle of that child? and sometimes walk with you by day and clasp your hand—much as his tiny hand did once, so trustingly, so like the clutching of a vine—and beg you never to be friends with anything save sorrow? And do you wholeheartedly love those other women's boys— who did not die? Yes, I remember. Judith, too, remembered. I was her father, for all that I had forsaken175 my family to dance Jack-pudding attendance on a fine Court lady. So Judith came. And Judith, who sees in play-writing just a very uncertain way of making money—Judith, who cannot tell a B from a bull's foot,—why, Judith, madam, did not ask, but gave, what was divine."
"You are unfair," she cried. "Oh, you are cruel, you juggle176 words, make knives of them.… You" and she spoke as with difficulty—"you have no right to know just how I loved my boy! You should be either man or woman!"
He said pensively177: "Yes, I am cruel. But you had mirth and beauty once, and I had only love and a vocabulary. Who then more flagrantly abused the gifts God gave? And why should I not be cruel to you, who made a master-poet of me for your recreation? Lord, what a deal of ruined life it takes to make a little art! Yes, yes, I know. Under old oaks lovers will mouth my verses, and the acorns178 are not yet shaped from which those oaks will spring. My adoration and your perfidy179, all that I have suffered, all that I have failed in even, has gone toward the building of an enduring monument. All these will be immortal, because youth is immortal, and youth delights in demanding explanations of infinity180. And only to this end I have suffered and have catalogued the ravings of a perverse125 disease which has robbed my life of all the normal privileges of life as flame shrivels hair from the arm—that young fools such as I was once might be pleased to murder my rhetoric181, and scribblers parody182 me in their fictions, and schoolboys guess at the date of my death!" This he said with more than ordinary animation183; and then he shook his head. "There is a leaven184," he said—"there is a leaven even in your smuggest and most inconsiderable tradesman."
She answered, with a wistful smile: "I, too, regret my poet. And just now you are more like him——"
"Faith, but he was really a poet—or, at least, at times——?"
"Dear, dear!" he said, in petulant186 vexation; "how horribly emotion botches verse. That clash of sibilants is both harsh and ungrammatical. Shall should be changed to will." And at that the woman sighed, because, in common with all persons who never essayed creative verbal composition, she was quite certain perdurable writing must spring from a surcharged heart, rather than from a rearrangement of phrases. And so,
"Very unfeignedly I regret my poet," she said, "my poet, who was unhappy and unreasonable187, because I was not always wise or kind, or even just. And I did not know until to-day how much I loved my poet.… Yes, I know now I loved him. I must go now. I would I had not come."
Then, standing188 face to face, he cried, "Eh, madam, and what if I also have lied to you—in part? Our work is done; what more is there to say?"
"Nothing," she answered—"nothing. Not even for you, who are a master-smith of words to-day and nothing more."
"I?" he replied. "Do you so little emulate189 a higher example that even for a moment you consider me?"
She did not answer.
When she had gone, the playmaker sat for a long while in meditation; and then smilingly he took up his pen. He was bound for "an uninhabited island" where all disasters ended in a happy climax190.
"So, so!" he was declaiming, later on: "We, too, are kin34 To dreams and visions; and our little life Is gilded by such faint and cloud-wrapped suns—Only, that needs a homelier touch. Rather, let us say, We are such stuff As dreams are made on—Oh, good, good!—Now to pad out the line.… In any event, the Bermudas are a seasonable topic. Now here, instead of thickly-templed India, suppose we write the still-vexed Bermoothes—Good, good! It fits in well enough.…"
And so in clerkly fashion he sat about the accomplishment191 of his stint192 of labor193 in time for dinner. A competent workman is not disastrously194 upset by interruption; and, indeed, he found the notion of surprising Judith with an unlooked-for trinket or so to be at first a very efficacious spur to composition.
And presently the strong joy of creating kindled195 in him, and phrase flowed abreast196 with thought, and the playmaker wrote fluently and surely to an accompaniment of contented197 ejaculations. He regretted nothing, he would not now have laid aside his pen to take up a scepter. For surely—he would have said—to live untroubled, and weave beautiful and winsome198 dreams is the most desirable of human fates. But he did not consciously think of this, because he was midcourse in the evoking199 of a mimic200 tempest which, having purged201 its victims of unkindliness and error, aimed (in the end) only to sink into an amiable202 calm.
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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levied
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| 征（兵）( levy的过去式和过去分词 )； 索取； 发动（战争）； 征税 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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mazed
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| 迷惘的，困惑的 | |
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phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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enchant
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| vt.使陶醉，使入迷；使着魔，用妖术迷惑 | |
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unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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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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shareholder
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| n.股东，股票持有人 | |
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primal
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| adj.原始的；最重要的 | |
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temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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24
excavating
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| v.挖掘( excavate的现在分词 )；开凿；挖出；发掘 | |
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25
emanated
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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26
drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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28
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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29
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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30
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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31
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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32
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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33
plagiarist
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| n.剽窃者，文抄公 | |
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34
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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35
larceny
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| n.盗窃（罪） | |
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36
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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37
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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38
pickpocket
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| n.扒手；v.扒窃 | |
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39
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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40
pilfer
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| v.盗，偷，窃 | |
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41
glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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42
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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44
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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45
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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46
belittlement
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| 轻视 | |
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47
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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48
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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49
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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50
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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51
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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52
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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53
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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54
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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55
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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56
cringing
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| adj.谄媚，奉承 | |
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57
smirkingly
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| 微笑地； 带笑； 咪； 笑眯眯 | |
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58
wheedling
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的现在分词 ) | |
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59
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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60
lackey
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| n.侍从；跟班 | |
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61
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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62
snobbishness
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| 势利； 势利眼 | |
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63
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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64
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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65
vending
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| v.出售（尤指土地等财产）( vend的现在分词 )；（尤指在公共场所）贩卖；发表（意见，言论）；声明 | |
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66
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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67
parasite
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| n.寄生虫；寄生菌；食客 | |
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68
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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69
conclave
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| n.秘密会议，红衣主教团 | |
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70
bevy
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| n.一群 | |
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71
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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72
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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73
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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75
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
attests
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| v.证明( attest的第三人称单数 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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77
dreads
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| n.恐惧，畏惧( dread的名词复数 )；令人恐惧的事物v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的第三人称单数 ) | |
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78
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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79
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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80
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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81
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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82
abominable
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|
| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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83
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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84
thrifty
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|
| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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85
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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86
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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87
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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88
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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89
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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90
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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91
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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92
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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93
unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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94
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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95
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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96
discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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97
niggardly
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|
| adj.吝啬的，很少的 | |
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98
grimaced
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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100
affidavits
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| n.宣誓书，（经陈述者宣誓在法律上可采作证据的）书面陈述( affidavit的名词复数 ) | |
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101
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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102
posturing
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| 做出某种姿势( posture的现在分词 ) | |
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103
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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104
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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105
monstrous
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|
| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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106
lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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107
poignant
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|
| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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108
elongated
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| v.延长，加长( elongate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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110
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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111
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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112
merge
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| v.(使)结合，(使)合并，(使)合为一体 | |
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113
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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114
pilfering
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| v.偷窃（小东西），小偷( pilfer的现在分词 )；偷窃（一般指小偷小摸） | |
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115
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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116
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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118
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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119
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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120
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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121
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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122
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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123
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
perversely
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| adv. 倔强地 | |
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125
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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126
augments
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| 增加，提高，扩大( augment的名词复数 ) | |
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127
utilizes
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| v.利用，使用( utilize的第三人称单数 ) | |
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128
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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129
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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130
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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131
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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132
demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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133
wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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134
quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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135
candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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136
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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137
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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138
inadequacy
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| n.无法胜任，信心不足 | |
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139
playwright
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| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
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140
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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141
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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142
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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143
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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144
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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145
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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146
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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147
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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148
malevolence
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| n.恶意，狠毒 | |
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149
pickle
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| n.腌汁，泡菜；v.腌，泡 | |
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150
commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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151
potently
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152
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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153
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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154
retaliates
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| v.报复，反击( retaliate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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155
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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156
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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157
abate
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| vi.(风势，疼痛等)减弱，减轻，减退 | |
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158
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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159
frailties
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| n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 )；虚弱；（性格或行为上的）弱点；缺点 | |
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160
buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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161
dwindles
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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162
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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163
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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attested
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| adj.经检验证明无病的，经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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165
ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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166
urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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167
imbroglios
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| n.一团糟，错综复杂的局面( imbroglio的名词复数 ) | |
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irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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169
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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170
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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171
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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172
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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173
discoursing
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| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
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174
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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175
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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juggle
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| v.变戏法，纂改，欺骗，同时做；n.玩杂耍，纂改，花招 | |
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pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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178
acorns
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| n.橡子，栎实( acorn的名词复数 ) | |
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179
perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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180
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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181
rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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182
parody
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| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
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183
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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184
leaven
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| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
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185
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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186
petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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187
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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189
emulate
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| v.努力赶上或超越，与…竞争；效仿 | |
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190
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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191
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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192
stint
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| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
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193
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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194
disastrously
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| ad.灾难性地 | |
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195
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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196
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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197
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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198
winsome
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| n.迷人的，漂亮的 | |
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199
evoking
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| 产生，引起，唤起( evoke的现在分词 ) | |
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200
mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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201
purged
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| 清除（政敌等）( purge的过去式和过去分词 )； 涤除（罪恶等）； 净化（心灵、风气等）； 消除（错事等）的不良影响 | |
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202
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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