He was surprised, she was delighted — those were her immediate1 reactions; but then, swiftly, a third feeling came upon her — she was afraid. What was the meaning of this unannounced, this forbidden return, and this extraordinary irruption? What kind of following had the man brought from Ireland and where was it? What had happened? Was it possible that at this very moment she was in his power? Completely in the dark, she at once sought refuge in the dissimulation2 which was her second nature. Her instinctive3 pleasure in his presence, her genuine admiration4 of his manner and his speech, served her purpose excellently, and, covered with smiles, she listened while he poured out his protestations and told his story — listened with an inward accompaniment of lightning calculations and weighings of shifting possibilities and snatchings at dubious5 hints. Very soon she guessed that she was in no immediate danger. She laughingly bade him begone and change his clothes, while she finished her toilet; he obeyed, returned, and the conversation continued for an hour and a half. He came downstairs to dinner in high spirits, flirted6 with the ladies, and thanked God that after so many storms abroad he had found so sweet a calm at home. But the calm was of short continuance; he saw the Queen again after dinner and found the breezes blowing. She had made her inquiries7, and, having sufficiently8 gauged9 the situation, had decided10 on her course of action. She began by asking disagreeable questions, disagreeably; when he answered, she grew angry; finally she declared that he must explain himself to the Council. The Council met, and when the Earl had given an account of his proceedings12, adjourned13 in vague politeness. Perhaps all was well — it almost seemed so; but the Queen, apparently14, was still vexed15 and inaccessible16. At eleven o’clock at night the Earl received a message from her Majesty17; he was commanded to keep to his chamber18.
Everyone was mystified, and the wildest speculations19 flew about. At the first blush it was supposed that Essex had completely triumphed — that in one bold stroke he had recaptured the favour and the power that were slipping from his grasp. Bacon sent off a letter of congratulation. “I am more yours than any man’s and more yours than any man,” he wrote. A little later, the news of the Queen’s displeasure brought doubts; yet it seemed hardly possible that anything very serious should happen to the Earl, who, after all, had only been blundering in Ireland, like so many before him. But meanwhile the Queen proceeded with her plan. Having waited a day, during which no news came of any suspicious movements in London, she felt she could take her next step. She committed Essex to the custody20 of the Lord Keeper Egerton, to whose residence — York House, in the Strand21 — he was forthwith removed. All still remained calm, and Elizabeth was satisfied: Essex was now completely at her mercy. She could decide at her leisure what she would do with him.
While she was considering he fell ill. He had been seriously unwell before he left Ireland, and the fatigue23 of his three days’ ride across England, followed by the emotion and disgrace at Nonesuch, had proved too much for his uncertain and suggestible physique. Yet, while he lay in captivity24 at York House, he still — though crying out from time to time that he only longed for a country obscurity — had not given up hopes of a return to favour and even a reinstatement as Lord Deputy. He wrote submissive letters to the Queen; but she refused to receive them, and sent no word. John Harington, who had been among those he had knighted in Ireland, returned at this moment, and Essex begged him to be the bearer of yet another missive, filled with contrition26 and adoration27. But the sprightly28 knight25 preferred to take no risks. He had been threatened with arrest on his arrival in London, and he felt that his own affairs were as much as he could manage; charity, he said, began at home, and he had no desire to be “wracked on the Essex coast.” His conscience, too, was not quite clear. He had had the curiosity to pay a visit to Tyrone after the pacification29, and had behaved, perhaps, in too friendly and familiar a fashion with the recreant30 Earl. He had produced a copy of his Ariosto, had read aloud some favourite passages, had presented the book to the elder of Tyrone’s sons —“two children of good towardly spirit, in English clothes like a nobleman’s sons, with velvet31 jerkins and gold lace,”— and finally had sat down to a merry dinner with the rebels at a “fern table, spread under the stately canopy32 of heaven.” Possibly some rumour33 of these proceedings had reached Elizabeth’s ears, and she was not altogether pleased by them. Nevertheless he believed that all would be well if only he could obtain an audience. He knew that she had a liking34 for him; he was her godson — had been familiar with her from his childhood, and was actually connected, in an underground way, with the royal family, his stepmother having been a natural daughter of Henry VIII. At last he was told that the Queen would receive him; he went to Court in considerable trepidation35; and as soon as he entered the presence he thanked his stars that he had had the sense to refuse to deliver any message from Essex.
He never forgot the fearful scene that followed. Hardly had he knelt before her than she strode towards him, seized him by the girdle, and, shaking it, exclaimed “By God’s Son, I am no Queen! That man is above me! Who gave him command to come here so soon? I did send him on other business.” While the terrified poet stammered36 out some kind of answer, she turned from him in fury, “walked fastly to and fro,” and “looked with discomposure in her visage.”
“By God’s Son!” she burst out again, “you are all idle knaves37 and Essex worse!” He tried to pacify38 her, but “her choler did outrun all reason,” she would listen to nothing, and, in the storm of her invective39, seemed to forget that her unfortunate godson was not, after all, the Lord Deputy. At last, however, she grew calmer, asked questions, was amused by Harington’s little jokes and stories, and made no account of his hobnobbing with Tyrone. He described the rebel to her, and his curious Court — how “his guard for the most part were beardless boys, without shirts, who in the frost wade40 as familiarly through rivers as water-spaniels.”
“With what charm,” he added, “such a master makes them love him, I know not; but if he bid them come, they come; if go, they do go; if he say do this, they do it.” She smiled; and then, suddenly changing countenance41, told him to go home. He “did not stay to be bidden twice,” but rode away to his house in Somersetshire “as if all the Irish rebels had been at his heels.”
The author of the Metamorphosis of Ajax was no fit confidant for a perplexed42 and injured sovereign. Elizabeth looked elsewhere for an adviser43, or at any rate a listener, and she found what she wanted in Francis Bacon. Recalling the conversation of the summer, she took advantage of his official attendance upon her on legal business to revert44 to the subject of the Earl. She found his answers pertinent45; she renewed the topic; and so began a series of strange dialogues in which, during many months, in confidential46 privacy, the fate of Essex, with all its hidden implications of policy and passion, became the meeting-point of those two most peculiar47 minds. Elizabeth was, as usual, uncertain how to treat the situation in which she found herself: was there to be forgiveness or punishment? and, if the latter, of what kind? Revealing little, she asked much. As for Bacon, he was in his element. He felt that he could thread his way through the intricacies that surrounded him with perfect propriety48. To adjust the claims of personal indebtedness and public duty, to combine the feelings of the statesman and the friend, to hold the balance true between honour and ambition — other men might find such problems difficult, if not insoluble; but he was not frightened by them; his intellect was capable of more than that. As he talked to Elizabeth he played upon the complex theme with the profound relish49 of a virtuoso50. He had long since decided that, in all human probability, Essex was a ruined man; he owed the Earl something — much; but it would be futile51 to spoil his own chances of fortune by adhering to a hopeless cause; it was essential to win the good graces of Robert Cecil; and now, there was this heaven-sent opportunity — which it would be madness to miss — for acquiring something more important still — the confidence of the Queen. Besides — he could doubt it no longer — Essex was a mischievous52 person, whose activities were dangerous to the State. While he was clearly bound to give him what help he could as a private individual, he was certainly under no obligation to forward the return of such a man to power; it was even his duty to insinuate53 into the Queen’s mind his own sense of the gravity of the situation. And so, with unhesitating subtlety54, he spun55 the web of his sagacious thought. He had no doubt of himself — none; and when, a few years later, under the pressure of the public disapproval56, he wrote an account of his proceedings, it still seemed to him that a recital57 of his actual conduct was all that was necessary as a justification58.
Elizabeth listened with interest to everything he had to say — it was always impossible to do otherwise. He was profuse59 in his expressions of sympathy and attachment60 to the Earl; but, he must needs say it, there were some positions to which he thought him ill-suited; to send him back to Ireland, for instance —“Essex!” interrupted the Queen. “Whensoever I send Essex back again into Ireland, I will marry you. Claim it of me.” No, that was not her thought — far from it; she intended rather to bring him to justice; but by what process? She inclined to a trial before the Star Chamber. But Bacon demurred61. It would, he said, be a dangerous proceeding11; it might be difficult to produce cogent62 proof in public of the Earl’s delinquencies; and his popularity was so great that a severe punishment on insufficient63 evidence might produce most serious consequences. She glared angrily, and dismissed him. She did not like that suggestion; but the words sank into her mind, and she veered64 away from the notion of a public prosecution65.
For, as time passed, everything seemed to show that Bacon’s warning was justified66. There could be no doubt about the Earl’s popularity. It was increased by his illness, and, when it was whispered that he lay near to death in his captivity, the public indignation made itself heard. Pamphlets, defending the Earl and attacking his enemies, were secretly printed and scattered67 broadcast. At last even the white walls of the palace were covered with abusive scrawls68. Bacon was singled out for particular denunciation; he was a traitor69, who was poisoning the Queen’s mind against his benefactor70. He was threatened — so he declared — with assassination71. This was unpleasant, but some use might be made of it: it might serve to put beyond a doubt his allegiance to the Secretary. He wrote to his cousin, telling him of these threats of violence, against which, he said, “I thank God I have the privy72 coat of a good conscience.” He looked upon them “as a deep malice73 to your honourable74 self, upon whom, by me, through nearness, they think to make some aspersion75.”
Cecil smiled gently when he read the letter; and he sent for his cousin. He wished to make his own position quite clear. He had indeed heard, he said, that Francis had been doing some ill office to Essex; but . . . he did not believe it. And then he added: “For my part, I am merely passive and not active in this action; and I follow the Queen, and that heavily, and I lead her not. The Queen indeed is my sovereign, and I am her creature, I may not leese her; and the same course I wish you to take.”
So he explained himself, and the explanation was a perfectly76 true one. Robert Cecil was indeed merely passive, merely following, with the sadness which his experience of the world had brought him, the action of the Queen. But passivity, too, may be a kind of action — may, in fact, at moments prove more full of consequence than action itself. Only a still, disillusioned77 man could understand this; it was hidden from the hasty children of vigour78 and hope. It was hidden, among others, from Walter Raleigh. He could not conceive what the Secretary was doing; he was letting a golden opportunity slip through his fingers; he was leaving the Queen to her own devices — it was madness — this was the time to strike. “I am not wise enough,” he wrote to Cecil, “to give you advice; but if you take it for a good counsel to relent towards this tyrant79, you will repent80 it when it shall be too late. His malice is fixed81, and will not evaporate by any your mild courses. For he will ascribe the alteration82 to her Majesty’s pusillanimity83 and not to your good nature: knowing that you work but upon her humour, and not out of any love towards him. The less you make him, the less he shall be able to harm you and yours. And if her Majesty’s favour fail him, he will again decline to a common person . . . Lose not your advantage; if you do, I rede your destiny. Yours to the end, WR.” It was true — he was not “wise enough” to give a Cecil advice. Could he not see that the faintest movement, the slightest attempt to put pressure upon the Queen, would be fatal? How little he understood that perverse84, that labyrinthine85 character! No! If anything was to be done, she herself, in her own strange way and with her own strange will, must do it. And the Secretary sat motionless — waiting, watching, and holding his breath.
Elizabeth, certainly, needed watching very carefully. For the moment she seemed to be occupied with entirely86 frivolous87 pursuits. The ceremonies of Accession Day absorbed her; she sat for hours in the tiltyard — where Essex had so often shone in all his glory — careless and amused; and when at last there was a grotesque88 surprise and Lord Compton came in, as an eye-witness described it, “like a Fisherman, with 6 men clad in motley, his capariesons all of nett, having caught a Frogge,” the old creature’s sides shook with delighted laughter. A week later she came to a sudden decision: she would justify89 her treatment of Essex before the world by having a statement of his delinquencies read out by the Council in the Star Chamber. He himself could not be present — he was too ill. But was he? She could not feel quite sure; he had been known before now to convert a fit of the sulks into a useful malady90; she would see for herself. And so, at four o’clock in the evening of November 28th, accompanied by Lady Warwick and Lord Worcester, she stepped into her barge91 and had herself conveyed to York House. We know no more. Essex was in truth very ill — apparently dying. Was he conscious of her visit? Were there words spoken? Or did she come and look and go, unseen? Unanswerable questions! The November night falls, gathering93 her up into its darkness.
Next day the Star Chamber met, and the statement of the Earl’s misdoings was read aloud. It was declared that he had mismanaged the Irish operations, that he had made a disgraceful treaty with Tyrone, and that he had returned to England contrary to the Queen’s express orders. Members of the public were admitted, but Francis Bacon did not attend. Elizabeth, running over the list of those who had been present, observed the fact. She sent him a message, asking the meaning of it. He replied that he had thought it wiser to keep away, in view of the threats of violence against his person. But she was not impressed by the excuse, and did not speak to him again for several weeks.
The Star Chamber declaration led to nothing. The weeks, the months, flowed by, and Essex was still a prisoner; the fatal evening at Nonesuch proved to have been the beginning of a captivity which lasted almost a year. Nor was it a mild one. None of the Earl’s intimates were allowed to see him. Even Lady Essex, who had just borne him a daughter, and who haunted the Court dressed in the deep mourning of a suppliant94, was forbidden to see her husband for many months. Elizabeth’s anger had assumed a grimmer aspect than ever before. Was this still a lovers’ quarrel? If so, it was indeed a strange one. For now contempt, fear, and hatred95 had come to drop their venom96 into the deadly brew97 of disappointed passion. With fixed resentment98, as the long months dragged out, she nursed her wrath99; she would make him suffer for his incompetence100, his insolence101, his disobedience; did he imagine that his charms were irresistible102? She had had enough of them, and he would find that he had made a mistake.
With the new year — it was the last of the century — there were two developments. Essex began to recover, and by the end of January he had regained103 his normal health. At the same time the Queen made a new attempt to deal with the situation in Ireland. Tyrone had himself put an end to the truce104 of September, and had recommenced his manoeuvrings against the English. Something had to be done, and Elizabeth, falling back on her previous choice, appointed Mountjoy Lord Deputy. He tried in vain to escape from the odious105 office, but it was useless; Elizabeth was determined106; go he must. Before doing so, however, he held a consultation107 with Southampton and Sir Charles Davers, another devoted108 follower109 of Essex, as to how he might best assist the imprisoned110 Earl. An extraordinary proposal was made. For some years past Essex had been in communication with James of Scotland, and Mountjoy himself, during the campaign in Ireland, had written to the King — whether with or without the knowledge of Essex is uncertain — asking him to make some move in Essex’s behalf. James’s answer having proved unsatisfactory, the matter was dropped; but it was now revived in an astonishing and far more definite manner. It was well known that the prime object of the King of Scotland’s policy was to secure the inheritance of England. Mountjoy suggested that a message should be sent to James informing him that the Cecil party was hostile to his succession, that his one chance lay in the reinstatement of Essex, that if he would take action in Essex’s favour Mountjoy himself would cross over from Ireland with an army of four or five thousand men, and that with their combined forces they could then impose their will upon the English Government. Southampton and Davers approved of the project, and there can be no doubt that Essex himself gave his consent to it, for the conspirators112 had found means of conveying letters in secret to and from York House. The messenger was despatched to Scotland; and Mountjoy actually started to take up the government of Ireland with this project of desperate treason in his mind. But James was a cautious person: his reply was vague and temporising; Mountjoy was informed; and the scheme was allowed to drop.
But not for long. For in the spring, Southampton went to Ireland, and Essex took the opportunity to send a letter to Mountjoy, urging him to carry out his original intention and to lead his army into England, with or without the support of James. Mountjoy, however, had changed his mind. Ireland had had its effect on him too — and an unexpected one. He was no longer the old Charles Blount, who had been content to follow in the footsteps of his dazzling friend; he had suddenly found his vocation113. He was a follower no more; he was a commander; he felt that he could achieve what no one had achieved before him; he would pacify Ireland, he would defeat Tyrone. Penelope herself would not keep him from that destiny. His answer was polite, but firm. “To satisfy my lord of Essex’s private ambition, he would not enter into an enterprise of that nature.”
Meanwhile Elizabeth, unaware114 of these machinations, was wondering gloomily what she was going to do. The Tower? On the whole, she thought not; things were bad — but not quite so bad as that. Nevertheless, she would move the culprit out of York House. The poor Lord Keeper could not be made a gaoler for ever; and Essex was sent into his own house, after Anthony Bacon and all his other friends had been turned out of it, to be kept there in as close confinement115 as before. Then her mind again moved towards the Star Chamber. She summoned Bacon, who once more advised against it; once more he told her — not that the Earl’s misdoings hardly deserved so terrible a form of prosecution — but that his power with the people was such as to make it dangerous. This time she agreed with him, and decided to set up a disciplinary tribunal of her own devising. There should be a fine show, and the miscreant116 should be lectured, very severely117 lectured, made to apologise, frightened a little, and then — let off. So she arranged it, and everyone fell in with her plans. Never was the cool paternalism of the Tudors so curiously118 displayed. Essex was a naughty boy, who had misbehaved, been sent to his room, and fed on bread and water; and now he was to be brought downstairs, and, after a good wigging119, told he was not to be flogged after all.
The ceremony took place, (June 5th, 1600), at York House, and lasted for eleven hours without a break. Essex knelt at the foot of the table, round which the assembled lords of the Council sat in all their gravity. After some time the Archbishop of Canterbury moved that the Earl be allowed to stand; this was granted; later on he was allowed to lean, and at last to sit. The Crown lawyers rose one after another to denounce his offences, which, with a few additions, were those specified120 in the Star Chamber declaration. Among the accusers was Bacon. He had written an ingenious letter, begging to be excused from taking a part in the proceedings, but adding that, if her Majesty desired it, he could not refuse. Naturally enough, her Majesty did desire it, and Bacon was instructed to draw the attention of the lords to the Earl’s impropriety in accepting the dedication121 of Hayward’s History of Henry IV. He knew full well the futility122 of the charge, but he did as he was bid. All was going well, and Essex was ready with a profound apology, when the dignity of the scene was marred123 by the excited ill-humour of Edward Coke, the Attorney-General. Essex found himself being attacked in such a way that he could not refrain from angry answers; Coke retorted; and the proceedings were degenerating124 into a wrangle125, when Cecil intervened with some tactful observations. Then the judgment126 of the Court was given. Imprisonment127 in the Tower and an enormous fine were hung for a moment over the Earl’s head; but on his reading aloud an abject128 avowal129 of his delinquencies, followed by a prayer for mercy, he was told that he might return to his house, and there await the Queen’s pleasure.
He waited for a month before anything happened; at last his guards were removed, but he was still commanded to keep to his house. Not until the end of August was he given complete liberty. Elizabeth was relenting, but she was relenting as unpleasantly as possible. All through the summer she was in constant conference with Bacon, who had now taken up the r?le of intermediary between the Queen and the Earl. He had sent an apology to Essex for the part he had played at York House, and Essex had magnanimously accepted it. He now composed two elaborate letters, in Essex’s name, addressed to the Queen and imploring130 her forgiveness. He did more. He invented a letter from his brother Anthony to Essex and the Earl’s reply — brilliant compositions, in which the style of each was exquisitely131 imitated, and in which the Earl’s devotion to his sovereign was beautifully displayed; and then he took these works and showed them to the Queen. Incidentally, there was much in them to the credit of Francis Bacon; but their effect was small. Perhaps Elizabeth was too familiar with the stratagems132 of plotters in the theatre to be altogether without suspicions when they were repeated in real life.
But Essex was not dependent upon Bacon’s intervention133; he wrote to the Queen himself, again and again. In varying tones he expressed his grief, he besought134 for an entire forgiveness, he begged to be allowed into the beloved presence once more. “Now having heard the voice of your Majesty’s justice, I do humbly135 crave136 to hear your own proper and natural voice of grace, or else that your Majesty in mercy will send me into another world.”
“I receive no grace, your Majesty shows no mercy. But if your Majesty will vouchsafe137 to let me once prostrate138 myself at your feet and behold139 your fair and gracious eyes, though it be unknown to all the world but to him that your Majesty shall appoint to bring me to that paradise — yea, though afterwards your Majesty punish me, imprison111 me, or pronounce the sentence of death against me — your Majesty is most merciful, and I shall be most happy.” So he wrote, but it was not only to Elizabeth that he addressed himself. Even while he was pouring out these regrets and protestations, his mind kept reverting140 to Ireland. One day he sent for Sir Charles Davers and asked him to make yet one more attempt upon the fidelity141 of Mountjoy. Davers knew well enough how it would be; but he was absolutely devoted to the Earl, who, as he said afterwards, “had saved my life, and that after a very noble fashion; he had suffered for me, and made me by as many means bound unto him, as one man could be bound unto another; the life he had saved, and my estate and means whatsoever142, he should ever dispose of”; and the adoring vassal143 immediately took horse, to do as his lord desired.
A moment of crisis was approaching, which, Essex perceived, would reveal the real state of Elizabeth’s mind. The monopoly of the sweet wines, which she had granted him for ten years, would come to an end at Michaelmas; would she renew it? It brought him a great income, and if she cut that off she would plunge144 him into poverty. Favour and hope — disgrace and ruin — those were the alternatives that seemed to hang upon her decision in this matter. She was well aware of it herself. She spoke92 of it to Bacon. “My Lord of Essex,” she said, “has written me some very dutiful letters, and I have been moved by them; but”— she laughed grimly —“what I took for the abundance of the heart I find to be only a suit for the farm of sweet wines.”
One letter, however, perhaps moved her more than the rest. “Haste paper to that happy presence, whence only unhappy I am banished145; kiss that fair correcting hand which lays new plasters to my lighter146 hurts, but to my greatest wound applieth nothing. Say thou comest from pining, languishing147, despairing Essex.” Did she find those words impossible to resist? It may have been so. From some phrases in another letter we may guess that there was indeed a meeting; but, if there was, it ended disastrously148. In the midst of his impassioned speeches a fearful bitterness welled up within her; she commanded him from her presence; and with her own hands she thrust him out.1
She hesitated for a month, and then it was announced that the profits from the sweet wines would be henceforward reserved for the Crown. The effect upon Essex was appalling149: he became like one possessed150. Davers had already brought back word from Mountjoy that his decision was irreversible. “He desired my Lord to have patience, to recover again by ordinary means the Queen’s ordinary favour; that, though he had it not in such measure as he had had heretofore, he should content himself.” Patience! Content himself! The time for such words was past! He raved151 in fury, and then, suddenly recoiling152, cursed himself in despair. “He shifteth,” wrote Harington, who paid him at this time a brief and terrified visit, “from sorrow and repentance153 to rage and rebellion so suddenly as well proveth him devoid154 of good reason or right mind . . . He uttered strange words, bordering on such strange designs that made me hasten forth22 and leave his presence . . . His speeches of the Queen becometh no man who hath mens sana in corpore sano. He hath ill advisers155 and much evil hath sprung from this source. The Queen well knoweth how to humble156 the haughty157 spirit, the haughty spirit knoweth not how to yield, and the man’s soul seemeth tossed to and fro, like the waves of a troubled sea.”
His “speeches of the Queen” were indeed insane. On one occasion something was said in his presence of “her Majesty’s conditions.”
“Her conditions!” he exclaimed. “Her conditions are as crooked158 as her carcase!” The intolerable words reached Elizabeth and she never recovered from them.
She, too, perhaps was also mad. Did she not see that she was drifting to utter disaster? That by giving him freedom and projecting him into poverty, by disgracing him and yet leaving him uncrushed, she was treating him in the most dangerous manner that could be devised? Her life-long passion for half-measures, which had brought her all her glory, had now become a mania159, and was about to prove her undoing160. Involved in an extraordinary paralysis161, she ignored her approaching fate.
But the Secretary ignored nothing. He saw what was happening, and what was bound to follow. He knew all about the gatherings162 at Lord Southampton’s in Drury House. He noted163 the new faces come up from the country, the unusual crowds of swaggering gentlemen in the neighbourhood of the Strand, the sense of stir and preparation in the air; and he held himself ready for the critical moment, whenever it might come.
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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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dissimulation
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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flirted
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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sufficiently
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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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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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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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inaccessible
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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custody
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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22
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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23
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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24
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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25
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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26
contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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27
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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28
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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29
pacification
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| n. 讲和，绥靖，平定 | |
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30
recreant
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| n.懦夫；adj.胆怯的 | |
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31
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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32
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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33
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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34
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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35
trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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36
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37
knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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38
pacify
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| vt.使(某人)平静(或息怒)；抚慰 | |
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39
invective
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| n.痛骂，恶意抨击 | |
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40
wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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41
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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42
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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43
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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44
revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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45
pertinent
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| adj.恰当的；贴切的；中肯的；有关的；相干的 | |
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46
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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47
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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48
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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49
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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50
virtuoso
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| n.精于某种艺术或乐器的专家，行家里手 | |
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51
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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52
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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53
insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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54
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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55
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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56
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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57
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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58
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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59
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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60
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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61
demurred
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
cogent
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| adj.强有力的，有说服力的 | |
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63
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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64
veered
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| v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的过去式和过去分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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65
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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66
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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67
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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68
scrawls
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| 潦草的笔迹( scrawl的名词复数 ) | |
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69
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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70
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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71
assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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72
privy
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| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
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73
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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74
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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75
aspersion
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| n.诽谤，中伤 | |
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76
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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77
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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78
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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79
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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80
repent
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|
| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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81
fixed
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|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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82
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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83
pusillanimity
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| n.无气力，胆怯 | |
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84
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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85
labyrinthine
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|
| adj.如迷宫的；复杂的 | |
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86
entirely
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|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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87
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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88
grotesque
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|
| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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89
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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90
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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91
barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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92
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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93
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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94
suppliant
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|
| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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95
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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96
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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97
brew
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| v.酿造，调制 | |
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98
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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99
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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100
incompetence
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| n.不胜任，不称职 | |
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101
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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102
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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103
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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104
truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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105
odious
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|
| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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106
determined
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|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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107
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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108
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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109
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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110
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
imprison
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| vt.监禁，关押，限制，束缚 | |
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112
conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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113
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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114
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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115
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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116
miscreant
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| n.恶棍 | |
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117
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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118
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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119
wigging
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| n.责备，骂，叱责 | |
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120
specified
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| adj.特定的 | |
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121
dedication
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| n.奉献，献身，致力，题献，献辞 | |
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122
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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123
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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124
degenerating
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的现在分词 ) | |
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125
wrangle
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| vi.争吵 | |
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126
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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127
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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128
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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129
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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130
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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131
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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132
stratagems
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| n.诡计，计谋( stratagem的名词复数 )；花招 | |
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133
intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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134
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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135
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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136
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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137
vouchsafe
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| v.惠予，准许 | |
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138
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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139
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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140
reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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141
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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142
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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143
vassal
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| n.附庸的；属下；adj.奴仆的 | |
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144
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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145
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
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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147
languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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148
disastrously
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| ad.灾难性地 | |
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149
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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150
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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151
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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152
recoiling
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| v.畏缩( recoil的现在分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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153
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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154
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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155
advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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156
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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157
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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158
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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159
mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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160
undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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161
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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162
gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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163
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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