The gloomy little study, with windows of stained glass to exclude the view, was full of dark green velvet4 and heavily-carved mahogany — a suite5 of which old Jolyon was wont6 to say: ‘Shouldn’t wonder if it made a big price some day!’
It was pleasant to think that in the after life he could get more for things than he had given.
In the rich brown atmosphere peculiar7 to back rooms in the mansion8 of a Forsyte, the Rembrandtesque effect of his great head, with its white hair, against the cushion of his high-backed seat, was spoiled by the moustache, which imparted a somewhat military look to his face. An old clock that had been with him since before his marriage forty years ago kept with its ticking a jealous record of the seconds slipping away forever from its old master.
He had never cared for this room, hardly going into it from one year’s end to another, except to take cigars from the Japanese cabinet in the corner, and the room now had its revenge.
His temples, curving like thatches9 over the hollows beneath, his cheek-bones and chin, all were sharpened in his sleep, and there had come upon his face the confession10 that he was an old man.
He woke. June had gone! James had said he would be lonely. James had always been a poor thing. He recollected11 with satisfaction that he had bought that house over James’s head.
Serve him right for sticking at the price; the only thing the fellow thought of was money. Had he given too much, though? It wanted a lot of doing to — He dared say he would want all his money before he had done with this affair of June’s. He ought never to have allowed the engagement. She had met this Bosinney at the house of Baynes, Baynes and Bildeboy, the architects. He believed that Baynes, whom he knew — a bit of an old woman — was the young man’s uncle by marriage. After that she’d been always running after him; and when she took a thing into her head there was no stopping her. She was continually taking up with ‘lame ducks’ of one sort or another. This fellow had no money, but she must needs become engaged to him — a harumscarum, unpractical chap, who would get himself into no end of difficulties.
She had come to him one day in her slap-dash way and told him; and, as if it were any consolation12, she had added:
“He’s so splendid; he’s often lived on cocoa for a week!”
“And he wants you to live on cocoa too?”
“Oh no; he is getting into the swim now.”
Old Jolyon had taken his cigar from under his white moustaches, stained by coffee at the edge, and looked at her, that little slip of a thing who had got such a grip of his heart. He knew more about ‘swims’ than his granddaughter. But she, having clasped her hands on his knees, rubbed her chin against him, making a sound like a purring cat. And, knocking the ash off his cigar, he had exploded in nervous desperation:
“You’re all alike: you won’t be satisfied till you’ve got what you want. If you must come to grief, you must; I wash my hands of it.”
So, he had washed his hands of it, making the condition that they should not marry until Bosinney had at least four hundred a year.
“I shan’t be able to give you very much,” he had said, a formula to which June was not unaccustomed. “Perhaps this What’s-his-name will provide the cocoa.”
He had hardly seen anything of her since it began. A bad business! He had no notion of giving her a lot of money to enable a fellow he knew nothing about to live on in idleness. He had seen that sort of thing before; no good ever came of it. Worst of all, he had no hope of shaking her resolution; she was as obstinate13 as a mule14, always had been from a child. He didn’t see where it was to end. They must cut their coat according to their cloth. He would not give way till he saw young Bosinney with an income of his own. That June would have trouble with the fellow was as plain as a pikestaff; he had no more idea of money than a cow. As to this rushing down to Wales to visit the young man’s aunts, he fully15 expected they were old cats.
And, motionless, old Jolyon stared at the wall; but for his open eyes, he might have been asleep. . . . The idea of supposing that young cub16 Soames could give him advice! He had always been a cub, with his nose in the air! He would be setting up as a man of property next, with a place in the country! A man of property! H’mph! Like his father, he was always nosing out bargains, a cold-blooded young beggar!
He rose, and, going to the cabinet, began methodically stocking his cigar-case from a bundle fresh in. They were not bad at the price, but you couldn’t get a good cigar, nowadays, nothing to hold a candle to those old Superfinos of Hanson and Bridger’s. That was a cigar!
The thought, like some stealing perfume, carried him back to those wonderful nights at Richmond when after dinner he sat smoking on the terrace of the Crown and Sceptre with Nicholas Treffry and Traquair and Jack17 Herring and Anthony Thornworthy. How good his cigars were then! Poor old Nick! — dead, and Jack Herring — dead, and Traquair — dead of that wife of his, and Thornworthy — awfully18 shaky (no wonder, with his appetite).
Of all the company of those days he himself alone seemed left, except Swithin, of course, and he so outrageously19 big there was no doing anything with him.
Difficult to believe it was so long ago; he felt young still! Of all his thoughts, as he stood there counting his cigars, this was the most poignant20, the most bitter. With his white head and his loneliness he had remained young and green at heart. And those Sunday afternoons on Hampstead Heath, when young Jolyon and he went for a stretch along the Spaniard’s Road to Highgate, to Child’s Hill, and back over the Heath again to dine at Jack Straw’s Castle — how delicious his cigars were then! And such weather! There was no weather now.
When June was a toddler of five, and every other Sunday he took her to the Zoo, away from the society of those two good women, her mother and her grandmother, and at the top of the bear den21 baited his umbrella with buns for her favourite bears, how sweet his cigars were then!
Cigars! He had not even succeeded in out-living his palate — the famous palate that in the fifties men swore by, and speaking of him, said: “Forsyte’s the best palate in London!” The palate that in a sense had made his fortune — the fortune of the celebrated22 tea men, Forsyte and Treffry, whose tea, like no other man’s tea, had a romantic aroma23, the charm of a quite singular genuineness. About the house of Forsyte and Treffry in the City had clung an air of enterprise and mystery, of special dealings in special ships, at special ports, with special Orientals.
He had worked at that business! Men did work in those days! these young pups hardly knew the meaning of the word. He had gone into every detail, known everything that went on, sometimes sat up all night over it. And he had always chosen his agents himself, prided himself on it. His eye for men, he used to say, had been the secret of his success, and the exercise of this masterful power of selection had been the only part of it all that he had really liked. Not a career for a man of his ability. Even now, when the business had been turned into a Limited Liability Company, and was declining (he had got out of his shares long ago), he felt a sharp chagrin24 in thinking of that time. How much better he might have done! He would have succeeded splendidly at the Bar! He had even thought of standing25 for Parliament. How often had not Nicholas Treffry said to him:
“You could do anything, Jo, if you weren’t so d-damned careful of yourself!” Dear old Nick! Such a good fellow, but a racketty chap! The notorious Treffry! He had never taken any care of himself. So he was dead. Old Jolyon counted his cigars with a steady hand, and it came into his mind to wonder if perhaps he had been too careful of himself.
He put the cigar-case in the breast of his coat, buttoned it in, and walked up the long flights to his bedroom, leaning on one foot and the other, and helping26 himself by the bannister. The house was too big. After June was married, if she ever did marry this fellow, as he supposed she would, he would let it and go into rooms. What was the use of keeping half a dozen servants eating their heads off?
The butler came to the ring of his bell — a large man with a beard, a soft tread, and a peculiar capacity for silence. Old Jolyon told him to put his dress clothes out; he was going to dine at the Club.
How long had the carriage been back from taking Miss June to the station? Since two? Then let him come round at half-past six!
The Club which old Jolyon entered on the stroke of seven was one of those political institutions of the upper middle class which have seen better days. In spite of being talked about, perhaps in consequence of being talked about, it betrayed a disappointing vitality27. People had grown tired of saying that the ‘Disunion’ was on its last legs. Old Jolyon would say it, too, yet disregarded the fact in a manner truly irritating to well-constituted Clubmen.
“Why do you keep your name on?” Swithin often asked him with profound vexation. “Why don’t you join the ‘Polyglot’? You can’t get a wine like our Heidsieck under twenty shillin’ a bottle anywhere in London;” and, dropping his voice, he added: “There’s only five hundred dozen left. I drink it every night of my life.”
“I’ll think of it,” old Jolyon would answer; but when he did think of it there was always the question of fifty guineas entrance fee, and it would take him four or five years to get in. He continued to think of it.
He was too old to be a Liberal, had long ceased to believe in the political doctrines28 of his Club, had even been known to allude29 to them as ‘wretched stuff,’ and it afforded him pleasure to continue a member in the teeth of principles so opposed to his own. He had always had a contempt for the place, having joined it many years ago when they refused to have him at the ‘Hotch Potch’ owing to his being ‘in trade.’ As if he were not as good as any of them! He naturally despised the Club that did take him. The members were a poor lot, many of them in the City — stockbrokers30, solicitors31, auctioneers — what not! Like most men of strong character but not too much originality32, old Jolyon set small store by the class to which he belonged. Faithfully he followed their customs, social and otherwise, and secretly he thought them ‘a common lot.’
Years and philosophy, of which he had his share, had dimmed the recollection of his defeat at the ‘Hotch Potch’; and now in his thoughts it was enshrined as the Queen of Clubs. He would have been a member all these years himself, but, owing to the slipshod way his proposer, Jack Herring, had gone to work, they had not known what they were doing in keeping him out. Why! they had taken his son Jo at once, and he believed the boy was still a member; he had received a letter dated from there eight years ago.
He had not been near the ‘Disunion’ for months, and the house had undergone the piebald decoration which people bestow33 on old houses and old ships when anxious to sell them.
‘Beastly colour, the smoking-room!’ he thought. ‘The dining-room is good!’
Its gloomy chocolate, picked out with light green, took his fancy.
He ordered dinner, and sat down in the very corner, at the very table perhaps! (things did not progress much at the ‘Disunion,’ a Club of almost Radical34 principles) at which he and young Jolyon used to sit twenty-five years ago, when he was taking the latter to Drury Lane, during his holidays.
The boy had loved the theatre, and old Jolyon recalled how he used to sit opposite, concealing35 his excitement under a careful but transparent36 nonchalance37.
He ordered himself, too, the very dinner the boy had always chosen-soup, whitebait, cutlets, and a tart38. Ah! if he were only opposite now!
The two had not met for fourteen years. And not for the first time during those fourteen years old Jolyon wondered whether he had been a little to blame in the matter of his son. An unfortunate love-affair with that precious flirt39 Danae Thornworthy (now Danae Pellew), Anthony Thornworthy’s daughter, had thrown him on the rebound40 into the arms of June’s mother. He ought perhaps to have put a spoke41 in the wheel of their marriage; they were too young; but after that experience of Jo’s susceptibility he had been only too anxious to see him married. And in four years the crash had come! To have approved his son’s conduct in that crash was, of course, impossible; reason and training — that combination of potent42 factors which stood for his principles — told him of this impossibility, and his heart cried out. The grim remorselessness of that business had no pity for hearts. There was June, the atom with flaming hair, who had climbed all over him, twined and twisted herself about him — about his heart that was made to be the plaything and beloved resort of tiny, helpless things. With characteristic insight he saw he must part with one or with the other; no half-measures could serve in such a situation. In that lay its tragedy. And the tiny, helpless thing prevailed. He would not run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, and so to his son he said good-bye.
That good-bye had lasted until now.
He had proposed to continue a reduced allowance to young Jolyon, but this had been refused, and perhaps that refusal had hurt him more than anything, for with it had gone the last outlet43 of his penned-in affection; and there had come such tangible44 and solid proof of rupture45 as only a transaction in property, a bestowal46 or refusal of such, could supply.
His dinner tasted flat. His pint47 of champagne48 was dry and bitter stuff, not like the Veuve Clicquots of old days.
Over his cup of coffee, he bethought him that he would go to the opera. In the Times, therefore — he had a distrust of other papers — he read the announcement for the evening. It was ‘Fidelio.’
Mercifully not one of those new-fangled German pantomimes by that fellow Wagner.
Putting on his ancient opera hat, which, with its brim flattened49 by use, and huge capacity, looked like an emblem50 of greater days, and, pulling out an old pair of very thin lavender kid gloves smelling strongly of Russia leather, from habitual51 proximity52 to the cigar-case in the pocket of his overcoat, he stepped into a hansom.
The cab rattled53 gaily54 along the streets, and old Jolyon was struck by their unwonted animation55.
‘The hotels must be doing a tremendous business,’ he thought. A few years ago there had been none of these big hotels. He made a satisfactory reflection on some property he had in the neighbourhood. It must be going up in value by leaps and bounds! What traffic!
But from that he began indulging in one of those strange impersonal56 speculations57, so uncharacteristic of a Forsyte, wherein lay, in part, the secret of his supremacy58 amongst them. What atoms men were, and what a lot of them! And what would become of them all?
He stumbled as he got out of the cab, gave the man his exact fare, walked up to the ticket office to take his stall, and stood there with his purse in his hand — he always carried his money in a purse, never having approved of that habit of carrying it loosely in the pockets, as so many young men did nowadays. The official leaned out, like an old dog from a kennel59.
“Why,” he said in a surprised voice, “it’s Mr. Jolyon Forsyte! So it is! Haven’t seen you, sir, for years. Dear me! Times aren’t what they were. Why! you and your brother, and that auctioneer — Mr. Traquair, and Mr. Nicholas Treffry — you used to have six or seven stalls here regular every season. And how are you, sir? We don’t get younger!”
The colour in old Jolyon’s eyes deepened; he paid his guinea. They had not forgotten him. He marched in, to the sounds of the overture60, like an old war-horse to battle.
Folding his opera hat, he sat down, drew out his lavender gloves in the old way, and took up his glasses for a long look round the house. Dropping them at last on his folded hat, he fixed61 his eyes on the curtain. More poignantly62 than ever he felt that it was all over and done with him. Where were all the women, the pretty women, the house used to be so full of? Where was that old feeling in the heart as he waited for one of those great singers? Where that sensation of the intoxication63 of life and of his own power to enjoy it all?
The greatest opera-goer of his day! There was no opera now! That fellow Wagner had ruined everything; no melody left, nor any voices to sing it. Ah! the wonderful singers! Gone! He sat watching the old scenes acted, a numb64 feeling at his heart.
From the curl of silver over his ear to the pose of his foot in its elastic-sided patent boot, there was nothing clumsy or weak about old Jolyon. He was as upright — very nearly — as in those old times when he came every night; his sight was as good — almost as good. But what a feeling of weariness and disillusion65!
He had been in the habit all his life of enjoying things, even imperfect things — and there had been many imperfect things — he had enjoyed them all with moderation, so as to keep himself young. But now he was deserted66 by his power of enjoyment67, by his philosophy, and left with this dreadful feeling that it was all done with. Not even the Prisoners’ Chorus, nor Florian’s Song, had the power to dispel69 the gloom of his loneliness.
If Jo were only with him! The boy must be forty by now. He had wasted fourteen years out of the life of his only son. And Jo was no longer a social pariah70. He was married. Old Jolyon had been unable to refrain from marking his appreciation71 of the action by enclosing his son a cheque for L500. The cheque had been returned in a letter from the ‘Hotch Potch,’ couched in these words.
‘MY DEAREST FATHER,
‘Your generous gift was welcome as a sign that you might think worse of me. I return it, but should you think fit to invest it for the benefit of the little chap (we call him Jolly), who bears our Christian72 and, by courtesy, our surname, I shall be very glad.
‘I hope with all my heart that your health is as good as ever.
‘Your loving son,
‘Jo.’
The letter was like the boy. He had always been an amiable73 chap. Old Jolyon had sent this reply:
‘MY DEAR JO,
‘The sum (L500) stands in my books for the benefit of your boy, under the name of Jolyon Forsyte, and will be duly-credited with interest at 5 per cent. I hope that you are doing well. My health remains74 good at present.
‘With love, I am, ‘Your affectionate Father, ‘JOLYON FORSYTE.’
And every year on the 1st of January he had added a hundred and the interest. The sum was mounting up — next New Year’s Day it would be fifteen hundred and odd pounds! And it is difficult to say how much satisfaction he had got out of that yearly transaction. But the correspondence had ended.
In spite of his love for his son, in spite of an instinct, partly constitutional, partly the result, as in thousands of his class, of the continual handling and watching of affairs, prompting him to judge conduct by results rather than by principle, there was at the bottom of his heart a sort of uneasiness. His son ought, under the circumstances, to have gone to the dogs; that law was laid down in all the novels, sermons, and plays he had ever read, heard, or witnessed.
After receiving the cheque back there seemed to him to be something wrong somewhere. Why had his son not gone to the dogs? But, then, who could tell?
He had heard, of course — in fact, he had made it his business to find out — that Jo lived in St. John’s Wood, that he had a little house in Wistaria Avenue with a garden, and took his wife about with him into society — a queer sort of society, no doubt — and that they had two children — the little chap they called Jolly (considering the circumstances the name struck him as cynical75, and old Jolyon both feared and disliked cynicism), and a girl called Holly76, born since the marriage. Who could tell what his son’s circumstances really were? He had capitalized the income he had inherited from his mother’s father and joined Lloyd’s as an underwriter; he painted pictures, too — water-colours. Old Jolyon knew this, for he had surreptitiously bought them from time to time, after chancing to see his son’s name signed at the bottom of a representation of the river Thames in a dealer’s window. He thought them bad, and did not hang them because of the signature; he kept them locked up in a drawer.
In the great opera-house a terrible yearning77 came on him to see his son. He remembered the days when he had been wont to slide him, in a brown holland suit, to and fro under the arch of his legs; the times when he ran beside the boy’s pony78, teaching him to ride; the day he first took him to school. He had been a loving, lovable little chap! After he went to Eton he had acquired, perhaps, a little too much of that desirable manner which old Jolyon knew was only to be obtained at such places and at great expense; but he had always been companionable. Always a companion, even after Cambridge — a little far off, perhaps, owing to the advantages he had received. Old Jolyon’s feeling towards our public schools and ‘Varsities never wavered, and he retained touchingly79 his attitude of admiration80 and mistrust towards a system appropriate to the highest in the land, of which he had not himself been privileged to partake. . . . Now that June had gone and left, or as good as left him, it would have been a comfort to see his son again. Guilty of this treason to his family, his principles, his class, old Jolyon fixed his eyes on the singer. A poor thing — a wretched poor thing! And the Florian a perfect stick!
It was over. They were easily pleased nowadays!
In the crowded street he snapped up a cab under the very nose of a stout81 and much younger gentleman, who had already assumed it to be his own. His route lay through Pall82 Mall, and at the corner, instead of going through the Green Park, the cabman turned to drive up St. James’s Street. Old Jolyon put his hand through the trap (he could not bear being taken out of his way); in turning, however, he found himself opposite the ‘Hotch Potch,’ and the yearning that had been secretly with him the whole evening prevailed. He called to the driver to stop. He would go in and ask if Jo still belonged there.
He went in. The hall looked exactly as it did when he used to dine there with Jack Herring, and they had the best cook in London; and he looked round with the shrewd, straight glance that had caused him all his life to be better served than most men.
“Mr. Jolyon Forsyte still a member here?”
“Yes, sir; in the Club now, sir. What name?”
Old Jolyon was taken aback.
“His father,” he said.
And having spoken, he took his stand, back to the fireplace.
Young Jolyon, on the point of leaving the Club, had put on his hat, and was in the act of crossing the hall, as the porter met him. He was no longer young, with hair going grey, and face — a narrower replica83 of his father’s, with the same large drooping84 moustache — decidedly worn. He turned pale. This meeting was terrible after all those years, for nothing in the world was so terrible as a scene. They met and crossed hands without a word. Then, with a quaver in his voice, the father said:
“How are you, my boy?”
The son answered:
“How are you, Dad?”
Old Jolyon’s hand trembled in its thin lavender glove.
“If you’re going my way,” he said, “I can give you a lift.”
And as though in the habit of taking each other home every night they went out and stepped into the cab.
To old Jolyon it seemed that his son had grown. ‘More of a man altogether,’ was his comment. Over the natural amiability85 of that son’s face had come a rather sardonic86 mask, as though he had found in the circumstances of his life the necessity for armour87. The features were certainly those of a Forsyte, but the expression was more the introspective look of a student or philosopher. He had no doubt been obliged to look into himself a good deal in the course of those fifteen years.
To young Jolyon the first sight of his father was undoubtedly88 a shock — he looked so worn and old. But in the cab he seemed hardly to have changed, still having the calm look so well remembered, still being upright and keen-eyed.
“You look well, Dad.”
“Middling,” old Jolyon answered.
He was the prey89 of an anxiety that he found he must put into words. Having got his son back like this, he felt he must know what was his financial position.
“Jo,” he said, “I should like to hear what sort of water you’re in. I suppose you’re in debt?”
He put it this way that his son might find it easier to confess.
Young Jolyon answered in his ironical90 voice:
“No! I’m not in debt!”
Old Jolyon saw that he was angry, and touched his hand. He had run a risk. It was worth it, however, and Jo had never been sulky with him. They drove on, without speaking again, to Stanhope Gate. Old Jolyon invited him in, but young Jolyon shook his head.
“June’s not here,” said his father hastily: “went of to-day on a visit. I suppose you know that she’s engaged to be married?”
“Already?” murmured young Jolyon’.
Old Jolyon stepped out, and, in paying the cab fare, for the first time in his life gave the driver a sovereign in mistake for a shilling.
Placing the coin in his mouth, the cabman whipped his horse secretly on the underneath91 and hurried away.
Old Jolyon turned the key softly in the lock, pushed open the door, and beckoned92. His son saw him gravely hanging up his coat, with an expression on his face like that of a boy who intends to steal cherries.
The door of the dining-room was open, the gas turned low; a spirit-urn hissed93 on a tea-tray, and close to it a cynical looking cat had fallen asleep on the dining-table. Old Jolyon ‘shoo’d’ her off at once. The incident was a relief to his feelings; he rattled his opera hat behind the animal.
“She’s got fleas,” he said, following her out of the room. Through the door in the hall leading to the basement he called “Hssst!” several times, as though assisting the cat’s departure, till by some strange coincidence the butler appeared below.
“You can go to bed, Parfitt,” said old Jolyon. “I will lock up and put out.”
When he again entered the dining-room the cat unfortunately preceded him, with her tail in the air, proclaiming that she had seen through this manouevre for suppressing the butler from the first. . . .
A fatality94 had dogged old Jolyon’s domestic stratagems95 all his life.
Young Jolyon could not help smiling. He was very well versed96 in irony97, and everything that evening seemed to him ironical. The episode of the cat; the announcement of his own daughter’s engagement. So he had no more part or parcel in her than he had in the Puss! And the poetical98 justice of this appealed to him.
“What is June like now?” he asked.
“She’s a little thing,” returned old Jolyon; they say she’s like me, but that’s their folly99. She’s more like your mother — the same eyes and hair.”
“Ah! and she is pretty?”
Old Jolyon was too much of a Forsyte to praise anything freely; especially anything for which he had a genuine admiration.
“Not bad looking — a regular Forsyte chin. It’ll be lonely here when she’s gone, Jo.”
The look on his face again gave young Jolyon the shock he had felt on first seeing his father.
“What will you do with yourself, Dad? I suppose she’s wrapped up in him?”
“Do with myself?” repeated old Jolyon with an angry break in his voice. “It’ll be miserable100 work living here alone. I don’t know how it’s to end. I wish to goodness. . . . ” He checked himself, and added: “The question is, what had I better do with this house?”
Young Jolyon looked round the room. It was peculiarly vast and dreary101, decorated with the enormous pictures of still life that he remembered as a boy — sleeping dogs with their noses resting on bunches of carrots, together with onions and grapes lying side by side in mild surprise. The house was a white elephant, but he could not conceive of his father living in a smaller place; and all the more did it all seem ironical.
In his great chair with the book-rest sat old Jolyon, the figurehead of his family and class and creed102, with his white head and dome-like forehead, the representative of moderation, and order, and love of property. As lonely an old man as there was in London.
There he sat in the gloomy comfort of the room, a puppet in the power of great forces that cared nothing for family or class or creed, but moved, machine-like, with dread68 processes to inscrutable ends. This was how it struck young Jolyon, who had the impersonal eye.
The poor old Dad! So this was the end, the purpose to which he had lived with such magnificent moderation! To be lonely, and grow older and older, yearning for a soul to speak to!
In his turn old Jolyon looked back at his son. He wanted to talk about many things that he had been unable to talk about all these years. It had been impossible to seriously confide103 in June his conviction that property in the Soho quarter would go up in value; his uneasiness about that tremendous silence of Pippin, the superintendent104 of the New Colliery Company, of which he had so long been chairman; his disgust at the steady fall in American Golgothas, or even to discuss how, by some sort of settlement, he could best avoid the payment of those death duties which would follow his decease. Under the influence, however, of a cup of tea, which he seemed to stir indefinitely, he began to speak at last. A new vista105 of life was thus opened up, a promised land of talk, where he could find a harbour against the waves of anticipation106 and regret; where he could soothe107 his soul with the opium108 of devising how to round off his property and make eternal the only part of him that was to remain alive.
Young Jolyon was a good listener; it was his great quality. He kept his eyes fixed on his father’s face, putting a question now and then.
The clock struck one before old Jolyon had finished, and at the sound of its striking his principles came back. He took out his watch with a look of surprise:
“I must go to bed, Jo,” he said.
Young Jolyon rose and held out his hand to help his father up. The old face looked worn and hollow again; the eyes were steadily109 averted110.
“Good-bye, my boy; take care of yourself.”
A moment passed, and young Jolyon, turning on his, heel, marched out at the door. He could hardly see; his smile quavered. Never in all the fifteen years since he had first found out that life was no simple business, had he found it so singularly complicated.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
drowsy
|
|
| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
puffed
|
|
| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
hearth
|
|
| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
velvet
|
|
| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
suite
|
|
| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
wont
|
|
| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
mansion
|
|
| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
thatches
|
|
| n.（稻草、芦苇等盖的）茅草屋顶( thatch的名词复数 )；乱蓬蓬的头发，又脏又乱的头发 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
10
confession
|
|
| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
recollected
|
|
| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
consolation
|
|
| n.安慰，慰问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
obstinate
|
|
| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
mule
|
|
| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
fully
|
|
| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
cub
|
|
| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
jack
|
|
| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
awfully
|
|
| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
outrageously
|
|
| 凶残地； 肆无忌惮地； 令人不能容忍地； 不寻常地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
poignant
|
|
| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
den
|
|
| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
celebrated
|
|
| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
aroma
|
|
| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
chagrin
|
|
| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
helping
|
|
| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
vitality
|
|
| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
doctrines
|
|
| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
allude
|
|
| v.提及，暗指 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
stockbrokers
|
|
| n.股票经纪人( stockbroker的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
solicitors
|
|
| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
originality
|
|
| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
bestow
|
|
| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
radical
|
|
| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
concealing
|
|
| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
transparent
|
|
| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
nonchalance
|
|
| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
tart
|
|
| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
flirt
|
|
| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
rebound
|
|
| v.弹回；n.弹回，跳回 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
potent
|
|
| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
outlet
|
|
| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
tangible
|
|
| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
rupture
|
|
| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
bestowal
|
|
| 赠与，给与； 贮存 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
pint
|
|
| n.品脱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
champagne
|
|
| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
flattened
|
|
| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
emblem
|
|
| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
habitual
|
|
| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
proximity
|
|
| n.接近，邻近 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
rattled
|
|
| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
gaily
|
|
| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
animation
|
|
| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
impersonal
|
|
| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
speculations
|
|
| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
supremacy
|
|
| n.至上；至高权力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
kennel
|
|
| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
overture
|
|
| n.前奏曲、序曲，提议，提案，初步交涉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
poignantly
|
|
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
intoxication
|
|
| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
numb
|
|
| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
disillusion
|
|
| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
deserted
|
|
| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
enjoyment
|
|
| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
dread
|
|
| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
dispel
|
|
| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
pariah
|
|
| n.被社会抛弃者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
appreciation
|
|
| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
Christian
|
|
| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
amiable
|
|
| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
remains
|
|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
cynical
|
|
| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
holly
|
|
| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
yearning
|
|
| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
pony
|
|
| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
touchingly
|
|
| adv.令人同情地，感人地，动人地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
admiration
|
|
| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
pall
|
|
| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
replica
|
|
| n.复制品 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
drooping
|
|
| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
amiability
|
|
| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
sardonic
|
|
| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
armour
|
|
| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
undoubtedly
|
|
| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
prey
|
|
| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
ironical
|
|
| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
underneath
|
|
| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
beckoned
|
|
| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
hissed
|
|
| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
fatality
|
|
| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
stratagems
|
|
| n.诡计，计谋( stratagem的名词复数 )；花招 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
versed
|
|
| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
irony
|
|
| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
poetical
|
|
| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
folly
|
|
| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
dreary
|
|
| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
creed
|
|
| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
confide
|
|
| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
superintendent
|
|
| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
vista
|
|
| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
anticipation
|
|
| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
soothe
|
|
| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
opium
|
|
| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
steadily
|
|
| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
averted
|
|
| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |