If the world were not composed of a race of ungrateful scoundrels, who share your prosperity while it lasts, and, even when gorged1 with your venison and Burgundy, abuse the generous giver of the feast, I am sure I merit a good name and a high reputation: in Ireland, at least, where my generosity2 was unbounded, and the splendour of my mansion3 and entertainments unequalled by any other nobleman of my time. As long as my magnificence lasted, all the country was free to partake of it; I had hunters sufficient in my stables to mount a regiment4 of dragoons, and butts5 of wine in my cellar which would have made whole counties drunk for years. Castle Lyndon became the headquarters of scores of needy6 gentlemen, and I never rode a-hunting but I had a dozen young fellows of the best blood of the country riding as my squires7 and gentlemen of the horse. My son, little Castle Lyndon, was a prince; his breeding and manners, even at his early age, showed him to be worthy8 of the two noble families from whom he was descended9: I don’t know what high hopes I had for the boy, and indulged in a thousand fond anticipations10 as to his future success and figure in the world. But stern Fate had determined11 that I should leave none of my race behind me, and ordained12 that I should finish my career, as I see it closing now — poor, lonely, and childless. I may have had my faults; but no man shall dare to say of me that I was not a good and tender father. I loved that boy passionately13; perhaps with a blind partiality: I denied him nothing. Gladly, gladly, I swear, would I have died that his premature16 doom17 might have been averted18. I think there is not a day since I lost him but his bright face and beautiful smiles look down on me out of heaven, where he is, and that my heart does not yearn19 towards him. That sweet child was taken from me at the age of nine years, when he was full of beauty and promise: and so powerful is the hold his memory has of me that I have never been able to forget him; his little spirit haunts me of nights on my restless solitary21 pillow; many a time, in the wildest and maddest company, as the bottle is going round, and the song and laugh roaring about, I am thinking of him. I have got a lock of his soft brown hair hanging round my breast now: it will accompany me to the dishonoured23 pauper’s grave; where soon, no doubt, Barry Lyndon’s worn-out old bones will be laid.
My Bryan was a boy of amazing high spirit (indeed how, coming from such a stock, could he be otherwise?), impatient even of my control, against which the dear little rogue24 would often rebel gallantly26; how much more, then, of his mother’s and the women’s, whose attempts to direct him he would laugh to scorn. Even my own mother (‘Mrs. Barry of Lyndon’ the good soul now called herself, in compliment to my new family) was quite unable to check him; and hence you may fancy what a will he had of his own. If it had not been for that, he might have lived to this day: he might — but why repine? Is he not in a better place? would the heritage of a beggar do any service to him? It is best as it is — Heaven be good to us! — Alas27! that I, his father, should be left to deplore28 him.
It was in the month of October I had been to Dublin, in order to see a lawyer and a moneyed man who had come over to Ireland to consult with me about some sales of mine and the cut of Hackton timber; of which, as I hated the place and was greatly in want of money, I was determined to cut down every stick. There had been some difficulty in the matter. It was said I had no right to touch the timber. The brute29 peasantry about the estate had been roused to such a pitch of hatred30 against me, that the rascals32 actually refused to lay an axe33 to the trees; and my agent (that scoundrel Larkins) declared that his life was in danger among them if he attempted any further despoilment34 (as they called it) of the property. Every article of the splendid furniture was sold by this time, as I need not say; and as for the plate, I had taken good care to bring it off to Ireland, where it now was in the best of keeping — my banker’s, who had advanced six thousand pounds on it: which sum I soon had occasion for.
I went to Dublin, then, to meet the English man of business; and so far succeeded in persuading Mr. Splint, a great shipbuilder and timber-dealer of Plymouth, of my claim to the Hackton timber, that he agreed to purchase it off-hand at about one-third of its value, and handed me over five thousand pounds: which, being pressed with debts at the time, I was fain to accept. HE had no difficulty in getting down the wood, I warrant. He took a regiment of shipwrights35 and sawyers from his own and the King’s yards at Plymouth, and in two months Hackton Park was as bare of trees as the Bog36 of Allen.
I had but ill luck with that accursed expedition and money. I lost the greater part of it in two nights’ play at ‘Daly’s,’ so that my debts stood just as they were before; and before the vessel37 sailed for Holyhead, which carried away my old sharper of a timber-merchant, all that I had left of the money he brought me was a couple of hundred pounds, with which I returned home very disconsolately38: and very suddenly, too, for my Dublin tradesmen were hot upon me, hearing I had spent the loan, and two of my wine-merchants had writs39 out against me for some thousands of pounds.
I bought in Dublin, according to my promise, however — for when I give a promise I will keep it at any sacrifices — a little horse for my dear little Bryan; which was to be a present for his tenth birthday, that was now coming on: it was a beautiful little animal and stood me in a good sum. I never regarded money for that dear child. But the horse was very wild. He kicked off one of my horse-boys, who rode him at first, and broke the lad’s leg; and, though I took the animal in hand on the journey home, it was only my weight and skill that made the brute quiet.
When we got home I sent the horse away with one of my grooms40 to a farmer’s house, to break him thoroughly42 in, and told Bryan, who was all anxiety to see his little horse, that he would arrive by his birthday, when he should hunt him along with my hounds; and I promised myself no small pleasure in presenting the dear fellow to the field that day: which I hoped to see him lead some time or other in place of his fond father. Ah me! never was that gallant25 boy to ride a fox-chase, or to take the place amongst the gentry43 of his country which his birth and genius had pointed44 out for him!
Though I don’t believe in dreams and omens45, yet I can’t but own that when a great calamity46 is hanging over a man he has frequently many strange and awful forebodings of it. I fancy now I had many. Lady Lyndon, especially, twice dreamed of her son’s death; but, as she was now grown uncommonly47 nervous and vapourish, I treated her fears with scorn, and my own, of course, too. And in an unguarded moment, over the bottle after dinner, I told poor Bryan, who was always questioning me about the little horse, and when it was to come, that it was arrived; that it was in Doolan’s farm, where Mick the groom41 was breaking him in. ‘Promise me, Bryan,’ screamed his mother, ‘that you will not ride the horse except in company of your father.’ But I only said, ‘Pooh, madam, you are an ass14!’ being angry at her silly timidity, which was always showing itself in a thousand disagreeable ways now; and, turning round to Bryan, said, ‘I promise your Lordship a good flogging if you mount him without my leave.’
I suppose the poor child did not care about paying this penalty for the pleasure he was to have, or possibly thought a fond father would remit48 the punishment altogether; for the next morning, when I rose rather late, having sat up drinking the night before, I found the child had been off at daybreak, having slipt through his tutor’s room (this was Redmond Quin, our cousin, whom I had taken to live with me), and I had no doubt but that he was gone to Doolan’s farm.
I took a great horsewhip and galloped49 off after him in a rage, swearing I would keep my promise. But, Heaven forgive me! I little thought of it when at three miles from home I met a sad procession coming towards me: peasants moaning and howling as our Irish do, the black horse led by the hand, and, on a door that some of the folk carried, my poor dear dear little boy. There he lay in his little boots and spurs, and his little coat of scarlet50 and gold. His dear face was quite white, and he smiled as he held a hand out to me, and said painfully, ‘You won’t whip me, will you, papa?’ I could only burst out into tears in reply. I have seen many and many a man dying, and there’s a look about the eyes which you cannot mistake. There was a little drummer-boy I was fond of who was hit down before my company at Kuhnersdorf; when I ran up to give him some water, he looked exactly like my dear Bryan then did — there’s no mistaking that awful look of the eyes. We carried him home and scoured51 the country round for doctors to come and look at his hurt.
But what does a doctor avail in a contest with the grim invincible52 enemy? Such as came could only confirm our despair by their account of the poor child’s case. He had mounted his horse gallantly, sat him bravely all the time the animal plunged54 and kicked, and, having overcome his first spite, ran him at a hedge by the roadside. But there were loose stones at the top, and the horse’s foot caught among them, and he and his brave little rider rolled over together at the other side. The people said they saw the noble little boy spring up after his fall and run to catch the horse; which had broken away from him, kicking him on the back, as it would seem, as they lay on the ground. Poor Bryan ran a few yards and then dropped down as if shot. A pallor came over his face, and they thought he was dead. But they poured whisky down his mouth, and the poor child revived: still he could not move; his spine55 was injured; the lower half of him was dead when they laid him in bed at home. The rest did not last long, God help me! He remained yet for two days with us; and a sad comfort it was to think he was in no pain.
During this time the dear angel’s temper seemed quite to change: he asked his mother and me pardon for any act of disobedience he had been guilty of towards us; he said often he should like to see his brother Bullingdon. ‘Bully57 was better than you, papa,’ he said; ‘he used not to swear so, and he told and taught me many good things while you were away.’ And, taking a hand of his mother and mine in each of his little clammy ones, he begged us not to quarrel so, but love each other, so that we might meet again in heaven, where Bully told him quarrelsome people never went. His mother was very much affected58 by these admonitions from the poor suffering angel’s mouth; and I was so too. I wish she had enabled me to keep the counsel which the dying boy gave us.
At last, after two days, he died. There he lay, the hope of my family, the pride of my manhood, the link which had kept me and my Lady Lyndon together. ‘Oh, Redmond,’ said she, kneeling by the sweet child’s body, ‘do, do let us listen to the truth out of his blessed mouth: and do you amend59 your life, and treat your poor loving fond wife as her dying child bade you.’ And I said I would: but there are promises which it is out of a man’s power to keep; especially with such a woman as her. But we drew together after that sad event, and were for several months better friends.
I won’t tell you with what splendour we buried him. Of what avail are undertakers’ feathers and heralds’ trumpery60? I went out and shot the fatal black horse that had killed him, at the door of the vault61 where we laid my boy. I was so wild, that I could have shot myself too. But for the crime, it would have been better that I should, perhaps; for what has my life been since that sweet flower was taken out of my bosom62? A succession of miseries63, wrongs, disasters, and mental and bodily sufferings which never fell to the lot of any other man in Christendom.
Lady Lyndon, always vapourish and nervous, after our blessed boy’s catastrophe64 became more agitated65 than ever, and plunged into devotion with so much fervour, that you would have fancied her almost distracted at times. She imagined she saw visions. She said an angel from heaven had told her that Bryan’s death was as a punishment to her for her neglect of her first-born. Then she would declare Bullingdon was alive; she had seen him in a dream. Then again she would fall into fits of sorrow about his death, and grieve for him as violently as if he had been the last of her sons who had died, and not our darling Bryan; who, compared to Bullingdon, was what a diamond is to a vulgar stone. Her freaks were painful to witness, and difficult to control. It began to be said in the country that the Countess was going mad. My scoundrelly enemies did not fail to confirm and magnify the rumour66, and would add that I was the cause of her insanity67: I had driven her to distraction68, I had killed Bullingdon, I had murdered my own son; I don’t know what else they laid to my charge. Even in Ireland their hateful calumnies69 reached me: my friends fell away from me. They began to desert my hunt, as they did in England, and when I went to race or market found sudden reasons for getting out of my neighbourhood. I got the name of Wicked Barry, Devil Lyndon, which you please: the country-folk used to make marvellous legends about me: the priests said I had massacred I don’t know how many German nuns70 in the Seven Years’ War; that the ghost of the murdered Bullingdon haunted my house. Once at a fair in a town hard by, when I had a mind to buy a waistcoat for one of my people, a fellow standing71 by said, ‘’Tis a strait-waistcoat he’s buying for my Lady Lyndon.’ And from this circumstance arose a legend of my cruelty to my wife; and many circumstantial details were narrated73 regarding my manner and ingenuity74 of torturing her.
The loss of my dear boy pressed not only on my heart as a father, but injured my individual interests in a very considerable degree; for as there was now no direct heir to the estate, and Lady Lyndon was of a weak health, and supposed to be quite unlikely to leave a family, the next in succession-that detestable family of Tiptoff — began to exert themselves in a hundred ways to annoy me, and were at the head of the party of enemies who were raising reports to my discredit76. They interposed between me and my management of the property in a hundred different ways; making an outcry if I cut a stick, sunk a shaft77, sold a picture, or sent a few ounces of plate to be remodelled78. They harassed79 me with ceaseless lawsuits80, got injunctions from Chancery, hampered81 my agents in the execution of their work; so much so that you would have fancied my own was not my own, but theirs, to do as they liked with. What is worse, as I have reason to believe, they had tamperings and dealings with my own domestics under my own roof; for I could not have a word with Lady Lyndon but it somehow got abroad, and I could not be drunk with my chaplain and friends but some sanctified rascals would get hold of the news, and reckon up all the bottles I drank and all the oaths I swore. That these were not few, I acknowledge. I am of the old school; was always a free liver and speaker; and, at least, if I did and said what I liked, was not so bad as many a canting scoundrel I know of who covers his foibles and sins, unsuspected, with a mask of holiness. As I am making a clean breast of it, and am no hypocrite, I may as well confess now that I endeavoured to ward20 off the devices of my enemies by an artifice82 which was not, perhaps, strictly83 justifiable84. Everything depended on my having an heir to the estate; for if Lady Lyndon, who was of weakly health, had died, the next day I was a beggar: all my sacrifices of money, &c., on the estate would not have been held in a farthing’s account; all the debts would have been left on my shoulders; and my enemies would have triumphed over me: which, to a man of my honourable85 spirit, was ‘the unkindest cut of all,’ as some poet says.
I confess, then, it was my wish to supplant86 these scoundrels; and, as I could not do so without an heir to my property, I DETERMINED TO FIND ONE. If I had him near at hand, and of my own blood too, though with the bar sinister87, is not here the question. It was then I found out the rascally88 machinations of my enemies; for, having broached89 this plan to Lady Lyndon, whom I made to be, outwardly at least, the most obedient of wives — although I never let a letter from her or to her go or arrive without my inspection90 — although I allowed her to see none but those persons who I thought, in her delicate health, would be fitting society for her; yet the infernal Tiptoffs got wind of my scheme, protested instantly against it, not only by letter, but in the shameful91 libellous public prints, and held me up to public odium as a ‘child-forger,’ as they called me. Of course I denied the charge — I could do no otherwise, and offered to meet any one of the Tiptoffs on the field of honour, and prove him a scoundrel and a liar92: as he was; though, perhaps, not in this instance. But they contented93 themselves by answering me by a lawyer, and declined an invitation which any man of spirit would have accepted. My hopes of having an heir were thus blighted94 completely: indeed, Lady Lyndon (though, as I have said, I take her opposition95 for nothing) had resisted the proposal with as much energy as a woman of her weakness could manifest; and said she had committed one great crime in consequence of me, but would rather die than perform another. I could easily have brought her Ladyship to her senses, however: but my scheme had taken wind, and it was now in vain to attempt it. We might have had a dozen children in honest wedlock96, and people would have said they were false.
As for raising money on annuities97, I may say I had used her life interest up. There were but few of those assurance societies in my time which have since sprung up in the city of London; underwriters did the business, and my wife’s life was as well known among them as, I do believe, that of any woman in Christendom. Latterly, when I wanted to get a sum against her life, the rascals had the impudence98 to say my treatment of her did not render it worth a year’s purchase — as if my interest lay in killing99 her! Had my boy lived, it would have been a different thing; he and his mother might have cut off the entail100 of a good part of the property between them, and my affairs have been put in better order. Now they were in a bad condition indeed. All my schemes had turned out failures; my lands, which I had purchased with borrowed money, made me no return, and I was obliged to pay ruinous interest for the sums with which I had purchased them. My income, though very large, was saddled with hundreds of annuities, and thousands of lawyers’ charges; and I felt the net drawing closer and closer round me, and no means to extricate101 myself from its toils102.
To add to all my perplexities, two years after my poor child’s death, my wife, whose vagaries103 of temper and wayward follies104 I had borne with for twelve years, wanted to leave me, and absolutely made attempts at what she called escaping from my tyranny.
My mother, who was the only person that, in my misfortunes, remained faithful to me (indeed, she has always spoken of me in my true light, as a martyr106 to the rascality107 of others and a victim of my own generous and confiding108 temper), found out the first scheme that was going on; and of which those artful and malicious109 Tiptoffs were, as usual, the main promoters. Mrs. Barry, indeed, though her temper was violent and her ways singular, was an invaluable110 person to me in my house; which would have been at rack and ruin long before, but for her spirit of order and management, and for her excellent economy in the government of my numerous family. As for my Lady Lyndon, she, poor soul! was much too fine a lady to attend to household matters — passed her days with her doctor, or her books of piety111, and never appeared among us except at my compulsion; when she and my mother would be sure to have a quarrel.
Mrs. Barry, on the contrary, had a talent for management in all matters. She kept the maids stirring, and the footmen to their duty; had an eye over the claret in the cellar, and the oats and hay in the stable; saw to the salting and pickling, the potatoes and the turf-stacking, the pig-killing and the poultry112, the linen-room and the bakehouse, and the ten thousand minutiae113 of a great establishment. If all Irish housewives were like her, I warrant many a hall-fire would be blazing where the cobwebs only grow now, and many a park covered with sheep and fat cattle where the thistles are at present the chief occupiers. If anything could have saved me from the consequences of villainy in others, and (I confess it, for I am not above owning to my faults) my own too easy, generous, and careless nature, it would have been the admirable prudence115 of that worthy creature. She never went to bed until all the house was quiet and all the candles out; and you may fancy that this was a matter of some difficulty with a man of my habits, who had commonly a dozen of jovial116 fellows (artful scoundrels and false friends most of them were!) to drink with me every night, and who seldom, for my part, went to bed sober. Many and many a night, when I was unconscious of her attention, has that good soul pulled my boots off, and seen me laid by my servants snug117 in bed, and carried off the candle herself; and been the first in the morning, too, to bring me my drink of small-beer. Mine were no milksop times, I can tell you. A gentleman thought no shame of taking his half-dozen bottles; and, as for your coffee and slops, they were left to Lady Lyndon, her doctor, and the other old women. It was my mother’s pride that I could drink more than any man in the country — as much, within a pint118, as my father before me, she said.
That Lady Lyndon should detest75 her was quite natural. She is not the first of woman or mankind either that has hated a mother-inlaw. I set my mother to keep a sharp watch over the freaks of her Ladyship; and this, you may be sure, was one of the reasons why the latter disliked her. I never minded that, however. Mrs. Barry’s assistance and surveillance were invaluable to me; and, if I had paid twenty spies to watch my Lady, I should not have been half so well served as by the disinterested119 care and watchfulness120 of my excellent mother. She slept with the house-keys under her pillow, and had an eye everywhere. She followed all the Countess’s movements like a shadow; she managed to know, from morning to night, everything that my Lady did. If she walked in the garden, a watchful121 eye was kept on the wicket; and if she chose to drive out, Mrs. Barry accompanied her, and a couple of fellows in my liveries rode alongside of the carriage to see that she came to no harm. Though she objected, and would have kept her room in sullen122 silence, I made a point that we should appear together at church in the coach-and-six every Sunday; and that she should attend the race-balls in my company, whenever the coast was clear of the rascally bailiffs who beset123 me. This gave the lie to any of those maligners who said I wished to make a prisoner of my wife. The fact is, that, knowing her levity124, and seeing the insane dislike to me and mine which had now begun to supersede125 what, perhaps, had been an equally insane fondness for me, I was bound to be on my guard that she should not give me the slip. Had she left me, I was ruined the next day. This (which my mother knew) compelled us to keep a tight watch over her; but as for imprisoning126 her, I repel127 the imputation128 with scorn. Every man imprisons129 his wife to a certain degree; the world would be in a pretty condition if women were allowed to quit home and return to it whenever they had a mind. In watching over my wife, Lady Lyndon, I did no more than exercise the legitimate130 authority which awards honour and obedience56 to every husband.
Such, however, is female artifice, that, in spite of all my watchfulness in guarding her, it is probable my Lady would have given me the slip, had I not had quite as acute a person as herself as my ally: for, as the proverb says that ‘the best way to catch one thief is to set another after him,’ so the best way to get the better of a woman is to engage one of her own artful sex to guard her. One would have thought that, followed as she was, all her letters read, and all her acquaintances strictly watched by me, living in a remote part of Ireland away from her family, Lady Lyndon could have had no chance of communicating with her allies, or of making her wrongs, as she was pleased to call them, public; and yet, for a while, she carried on a correspondence under my very nose, and acutely organised a conspiracy131 for flying from me; as shall be told.
She always had an inordinate132 passion for dress, and, as she was never thwarted133 in any whimsey she had of this kind (for I spared no money to gratify her, and among my debts are milliners’ bills to the amount of many thousands), boxes used to pass continually to and fro from Dublin, with all sorts of dresses, caps, flounces, and furbelows, as her fancy dictated134. With these would come letters from her milliner, in answer to numerous similar injunctions from my Lady; all of which passed through my hands, without the least suspicion, for some time. And yet in these very papers, by the easy means of sympathetic ink, were contained all her Ladyship’s correspondence; and Heaven knows (for it was some time, as I have said, before I discovered the trick) what charges against me.
But clever Mrs. Barry found out that always before my lady-wife chose to write letters to her milliner, she had need of lemons to make her drink, as she said; this fact, being mentioned to me, set me a-thinking, and so I tried one of the letters before the fire, and the whole scheme of villainy was brought to light. I will give a specimen136 of one of the horrid137 artful letters of this unhappy woman. In a great hand, with wide lines, were written a set of directions to her mantua-maker, setting forth138 the articles of dress for which my Lady had need, the peculiarity140 of their make, the stuff she selected, &c. She would make out long lists in this way, writing each article in a separate line, so as to have more space for detailing all my cruelties and her tremendous wrongs. Between these lines she kept the journal of her captivity141: it would have made the fortune of a romance-writer in those days but to have got a copy of it, and to have published it under the title of the ‘Lovely Prisoner, or the Savage142 Husband,’ or by some name equally taking and absurd. The journal would be as follows:—
. . . . . . .
‘MONDAY. — Yesterday I was made to go to church. My odious143, MONSTROUS144, VULGAR SHE-DRAGON OF A MOTHER-IN-LAW, in a yellow satin and red ribands, taking the first place in the coach; Mr. L. riding by its side, on the horse he never paid for to Captain Hurdlestone. The wicked hypocrite led me to the pew, with hat in hand and a smiling countenance145, and kissed my hand as I entered the coach after service, and patted my Italian greyhound — all that the few people collected might see. He made me come downstairs in the evening to make tea for his company; of whom three-fourths, he himself included, were, as usual, drunk. They painted the parson’s face black, when his reverence146 had arrived at his seventh bottle; and at his usual insensible stage, they tied him on the grey mare147 with his face to the tail. The she-dragon read the “Whole Duty of Man” all the evening till bedtime; when she saw me to my apartments, locked me in, and proceeded to wait upon her abominable148 son: whom she adores for his wickedness, I should think, AS STYCORAX DID CALIBAN.’
. . . . . . .
You should have seen my mother’s fury as I read her out this passage! Indeed, I have always had a taste for a joke (that practised on the parson, as described above, is, I confess, a true bill), and used carefully to select for Mrs. Barry’s hearing all the COMPLIMENTS that Lady Lyndon passed upon her. The dragon was the name by which she was known in this precious correspondence: or sometimes she was designated by the title of the ‘Irish Witch.’ As for me, I was denominated ‘my gaoler,’ ‘my tyrant150,’ ‘the dark spirit which has obtained the mastery over my being,’ and so on; in terms always complimentary151 to my power, however little they might be so to my amiability152. Here is another extract from her ‘Prison Diary,’ by which it will be seen that my Lady, although she pretended to be so indifferent to my goings on, had a sharp woman’s eye, and could be as jealous as another:—
. . . . . . .
‘WEDNESDAY. — This day two years my last hope and pleasure in life was taken from me, and my dear child was called to heaven. Has he joined his neglected brother there, whom I suffered to grow up unheeded by my side: and whom the tyranny of the monster to whom I am united drove to exile, and perhaps to death? Or is the child alive, as my fond heart sometimes deems? Charles Bullingdon! come to the aid of a wretched mother, who acknowledges her crimes, her coldness towards thee, and now bitterly pays for her error! But no, he cannot live! I am distracted! My only hope is in you, my cousin — you whom I had once thought to salute154 by a STILL FONDER TITLE, my dear George Poynings! Oh, be my knight155 and my preserver, the true chivalric156 being thou ever wert, and rescue me from the thrall157 of the felon158 caitiff who holds me captive — rescue me from him, and from Stycorax, the vile159 Irish witch, his mother!’
(Here follow some verses, such as her Ladyship was in the habit of composing by reams, in which she compares herself to Sabra, in the ‘Seven Champions,’ and beseeches160 her George to rescue her from THE DRAGON, meaning Mrs. Barry. I omit the lines, and proceed:)—
‘Even my poor child, who perished untimely on this sad anniversary, the tyrant who governs me had taught to despise and dislike me. ’Twas in disobedience to my orders, my prayers, that he went on the fatal journey. What sufferings, what humiliations have I had to endure since then! I am a prisoner in my own halls. I should fear poison, but that I know the wretch153 has a sordid162 interest in keeping me alive, and that my death would be the signal for his ruin. But I dare not stir without my odious, hideous163, vulgar gaoler, the horrid Irishwoman, who pursues my every step. I am locked into my chamber164 at night, like a felon, and only suffered to leave it when ORDERED into the presence of my lord (I ordered!), to be present at his orgies with his boon165 companions, and to hear his odious converse166 as he lapses167 into the disgusting madness of intoxication168! He has given up even the semblance169 of constancy — he, who swore that I alone could attach or charm him! And now he brings his vulgar mistresses before my very eyes, and would have had me acknowledge, as heir to my own property, his child by another!
‘No, I never will submit! Thou, and thou only, my George, my early friend, shalt be heir to the estates of Lyndon. Why did not Fate join me to thee, instead of to the odious man who holds me under his sway, and make the poor Calista happy?’
. . . . . . .
So the letters would run on for sheets upon sheets, in the closest cramped170 handwriting; and I leave any unprejudiced reader to say whether the writer of such documents must not have been as silly and vain a creature as ever lived, and whether she did not want being taken care of? I could copy out yards of rhapsody to Lord George Poynings, her old flame, in which she addressed him by the most affectionate names, and implored171 him to find a refuge for her against her oppressors; but they would fatigue172 the reader to peruse173, as they would me to copy. The fact is, that this unlucky lady had the knack174 of writing a great deal more than she meant. She was always reading novels and trash; putting herself into imaginary characters and flying off into heroics and sentimentalities with as little heart as any woman I ever knew; yet showing the most violent disposition175 to be in love. She wrote always as if she was in a flame of passion. I have an elegy176 on her lap-dog, the most tender and pathetic piece she ever wrote; and most tender notes of remonstrance177 to Betty, her favourite maid; to her housekeeper178, on quarrelling with her; to half-a-dozen acquaintances, each of whom she addressed as the dearest friend in the world, and forgot the very moment she took up another fancy. As for her love for her children, the above passage will show how much she was capable of true maternal180 feeling: the very sentence in which she records the death of one child serves to betray her egotisms, and to wreak181 her spleen against myself; and she only wishes to recall another from the grave, in order that he may be of some personal advantage to her. If I DID deal severely182 with this woman, keeping her from her flatterers who would have bred discord183 between us, and locking her up out of mischief184, who shall say that I was wrong? If any woman deserved a strait-waistcoat — it was my Lady Lyndon; and I have known people in my time manacled, and with their heads shaved, in the straw, who had not committed half the follies of that foolish, vain, infatuated creature.
My mother was so enraged185 by the charges against me and herself which these letters contained, that it was with the utmost difficulty I could keep her from discovering our knowledge of them to Lady Lyndon; whom it was, of course, my object to keep in ignorance of our knowledge of her designs: for I was anxious to know how far they went, and to what pitch of artifice she would go. The letters increased in interest (as they say of the novels) as they proceeded. Pictures were drawn186 of my treatment of her which would make your heart throb187. I don’t know of what monstrosities she did not accuse me, and what miseries and starvation she did not profess188 herself to undergo; all the while she was living exceedingly fat and contented, to outward appearances, at our house at Castle Lyndon. Novel-reading and vanity had turned her brain. I could not say a rough word to her (and she merited many thousands a day, I can tell you), but she declared I was putting her to the torture; and my mother could not remonstrate189 with her but she went off into a fit of hysterics, of which she would declare the worthy old lady was the cause.
At last she began to threaten to kill herself; and though I by no means kept the cutlery out of the way, did not stint190 her in garters, and left her doctor’s shop at her entire service — knowing her character full well, and that there was no woman in Christendom less likely to lay hands on her precious life than herself; yet these threats had an effect, evidently, in the quarter to which they were addressed; for the milliner’s packets now began to arrive with great frequency, and the bills sent to her contained assurances of coming aid. The chivalrous191 Lord George Poynings was coming to his cousin’s rescue, and did me the compliment to say that he hoped to free his dear cousin from the clutches of the most atrocious villain114 that ever disgraced humanity; and that, when she was free, measures should be taken for a divorce, on the ground of cruelty and every species of ill-usage on my part.
I had copies of all these precious documents on one side and the other carefully made, by my beforementioned relative, godson, and secretary, Mr. Redmond Quin at present the WORTHY agent of the Castle Lyndon property. This was a son of my old flame Nora, whom I had taken from her in a fit of generosity; promising192 to care for his education at Trinity College, and provide for him through life. But after the lad had been for a year at the University, the tutors would not admit him to commons or lectures until his college bills were paid; and, offended by this insolent193 manner of demanding the paltry194 sum due, I withdrew my patronage195 from the place, and ordered my gentleman to Castle Lyndon; where I made him useful to me in a hundred ways. In my dear little boy’s lifetime, he tutored the poor child as far as his high spirit would let him; but I promise you it was small trouble poor dear Bryan ever gave the books. Then he kept Mrs. Barry’s accounts; copied my own interminable correspondence with my lawyers and the agents of all my various property; took a hand at piquet or backgammon of evenings with me and my mother; or, being an ingenious lad enough (though of a mean boorish196 spirit, as became the son of such a father), accompanied my Lady Lyndon’s spinet197 with his flageolet; or read French and Italian with her: in both of which languages her Ladyship was a fine scholar, and with which he also became conversant198. It would make my watchful old mother very angry to hear them conversing199 in these languages; for, not understanding a word of either of them, Mrs. Barry was furious when they were spoken, and always said it was some scheming they were after. It was Lady Lyndon’s constant way of annoying the old lady, when the three were alone together, to address Quin in one or other of these tongues.
I was perfectly200 at ease with regard to his fidelity201, for I had bred the lad, and loaded him with benefits; and, besides, had had various proofs of his trustworthiness. He it was who brought me three of Lord George’s letters, in reply to some of my Lady’s complaints; which were concealed202 between the leather and the boards of a book which was sent from the circulating library for her Ladyship’s perusal203. He and my Lady too had frequent quarrels. She mimicked204 his gait in her pleasanter moments; in her haughty205 moods, she would not sit down to table with a tailor’s grandson. ‘Send me anything for company but that odious Quin,’ she would say, when I proposed that he should go and amuse her with his books and his flute206; for, quarrelsome as we were, it must not be supposed we were always at it: I was occasionally attentive207 to her. We would be friends for a month together, sometimes; then we would quarrel for a fortnight; then she would keep her apartments for a month: all of which domestic circumstances were noted208 down, in her Ladyship’s peculiar139 way, in her journal of captivity, as she called it; and a pretty document it is! Sometimes she writes, ‘My monster has been almost kind today;’ or, ‘My ruffian has deigned209 to smile.’ Then she will break out into expressions of savage hate; but for my poor mother it was ALWAYS hatred. It was, ‘The she-dragon is sick today; I wish to Heaven she would die!’ or, ‘The hideous old Irish basketwoman has been treating me to some of her Billingsgate today,’ and so forth: all which expressions, read to Mrs. Barry, or translated from the French and Italian, in which many of them were written, did not fail to keep the old lady in a perpetual fury against her charge: and so I had my watch-dog, as I called her, always on the alert. In translating these languages, young Quin was of great service to me; for I had a smattering of French — and High Dutch, when I was in the army, of course, I knew well — but Italian I knew nothing of, and was glad of the services of so faithful and cheap an interpreter.
This cheap and faithful interpreter, this godson and kinsman210, on whom and on whose family I had piled up benefits, was actually trying to betray me; and for several months, at least, was in league with the enemy against me. I believe that the reason why they did not move earlier was the want of the great mover of all treasons — money: of which, in all parts of my establishment, there was a woful scarcity211; but of this they also managed to get a supply through my rascal31 of a godson, who could come and go quite unsuspected: the whole scheme was arranged under our very noses, and the post-chaise ordered, and the means of escape actually got ready; while I never suspected their design.
A mere212 accident made me acquainted with their plan. One of my colliers had a pretty daughter; and this pretty lass had for her bachelor, as they call them in Ireland, a certain lad, who brought the letter-bag for Castle Lyndon (and many a dunning letter for me was there in it, God wot!): this letter-boy told his sweetheart how he brought a bag of money from the town for Master Quin; and how that Tim the post-boy had told him that he was to bring a chaise down to the water at a certain hour. Miss Rooney, who had no secrets from me, blurted213 out the whole story; asked me what scheming I was after, and what poor unlucky girl I was going to carry away with the chaise I had ordered, and bribe214 with the money I had got from town?
Then the whole secret flashed upon me, that the man I had cherished in my bosom was going to betray me. I thought at one time of catching215 the couple in the act of escape, half drowning them in the ferry which they had to cross to get to their chaise, and of pistolling the young traitor216 before Lady Lyndon’s eyes; but, on second thoughts, it was quite clear that the news of the escape would make a noise through the country, and rouse the confounded justice’s people about my ears, and bring me no good in the end. So I was obliged to smother217 my just indignation, and to content myself by crushing the foul218 conspiracy, just at the moment it was about to be hatched.
I went home, and in half-an-hour, and with a few of my terrible looks, I had Lady Lyndon on her knees, begging me to forgive her; confessing all and everything; ready to vow219 and swear she would never make such an attempt again; and declaring that she was fifty times on the point of owning everything to me, but that she feared my wrath220 against the poor young lad her accomplice221: who was indeed the author and inventor of all the mischief. This — though I knew how entirely222 false the statement was — I was fain to pretend to believe; so I begged her to write to her cousin, Lord George, who had supplied her with money, as she admitted, and with whom the plan had been arranged, stating, briefly223, that she had altered her mind as to the trip to the country proposed; and that, as her dear husband was rather in delicate health, she preferred to stay at home and nurse him. I added a dry postscript224, in which I stated that it would give me great pleasure if his Lordship would come and visit us at Castle Lyndon, and that I longed to renew an acquaintance which in former times gave me so much satisfaction. ‘I should seek him out,’ I added, ‘so soon as ever I was in his neighbourhood, and eagerly anticipated the pleasure of a meeting with him.’ I think he must have understood my meaning perfectly well; which was, that I would run him through the body on the very first occasion I could come at him.
Then I had a scene with my perfidious225 rascal of a nephew; in which the young reprobate226 showed an audacity227 and a spirit for which I was quite unprepared. When I taxed him with ingratitude228, ‘What do I owe you?’ said he. ‘I have toiled229 for you as no man ever did for another, and worked without a penny of wages. It was you yourself who set me against you, by giving me a task against which my soul revolted — by making me a spy over your unfortunate wife, whose weakness is as pitiable as are her misfortunes and your rascally treatment of her. Flesh and blood could not bear to see the manner in which you used her. I tried to help her to escape from you; and I would do it again, if the opportunity offered, and so I tell you to your teeth!’ When I offered to blow his brains out for his insolence230, ‘Pooh!’ said he — ‘kill the man who saved your poor boy’s life once, and who was endeavouring to keep him out of the ruin and perdition into which a wicked father was leading him, when a Merciful Power interposed, and withdrew him from this house of crime? I would have left you months ago, but I hoped for some chance of rescuing this unhappy lady. I swore I would try, the day I saw you strike her. Kill me, you woman’s bully! You would if you dared; but you have not the heart. Your very servants like me better than you. Touch me, and they will rise and send you to the gallows231 you merit!’
I interrupted this neat speech by sending a water-bottle at the young gentleman’s head, which felled him to the ground; and then I went to meditate232 upon what he had said to me. It was true the fellow had saved poor little Bryan’s life, and the boy to his dying day was tenderly attached to him. ‘Be good to Redmond, papa,’ were almost the last words he spoke105; and I promised the poor child, on his death-bed, that I would do as he asked. It was also true, that rough usage of him would be little liked by my people, with whom he had managed to become a great favourite: for, somehow, though I got drunk with the rascals often, and was much more familiar with them than a man of my rank commonly is, yet I knew I was by no means liked by them; and the scoundrels were murmuring against me perpetually.
But I might have spared myself the trouble of debating what his fate should be, for the young gentleman took the disposal of it out of my hands in the simplest way in the world: viz. by washing and binding233 up his head so soon as he came to himself: by taking his horse from the stables; and, as he was quite free to go in and out of the house and park as he liked, he disappeared without the least let or hindrance234; and leaving the horse behind him at the ferry, went off in the very post-chaise which was waiting for Lady Lyndon. I saw and heard no more of him for a considerable time; and now that he was out of the house, did not consider him a very troublesome enemy.
But the cunning artifice of woman is such that, I think, in the long run, no man, were he Machiavel himself, could escape from it; and though I had ample proofs in the above transaction (in which my wife’s perfidious designs were frustrated235 by my foresight), and under her own handwriting, of the deceitfulness of her character and her hatred for me, yet she actually managed to deceive me, in spite of all my precautions and the vigilance of my mother in my behalf. Had I followed that good lady’s advice, who scented236 the danger from afar off, as it were, I should never have fallen into the snare237 prepared for me; and which was laid in a way that was as successful as it was simple.
My Lady Lyndon’s relation with me was a singular one. Her life was passed in a crack-brained sort of alternation between love and hatred for me. If I was in a good-humour with her (as occurred sometimes) there was nothing she would not do to propitiate238 me further; and she would be as absurd and violent in her expressions of fondness as, at other moments, she would be in her demonstrations239 of hatred. It is not your feeble easy husbands who are loved best in the world; according to my experience of it. I do think the women like a little violence of temper, and think no worse of a husband who exercises his authority pretty smartly. I had got my Lady into such a terror about me, that when I smiled, it was quite an era of happiness to her; and if I beckoned240 to her, she would come fawning241 up to me like a dog. I recollect242 how, for the few days I was at school, the cowardly mean-spirited fellows would laugh if ever our schoolmaster made a joke. It was the same in the regiment whenever the bully of a sergeant243 was disposed to be jocular — not a recruit but was on the broad grin. Well, a wise and determined husband will get his wife into this condition of discipline; and I brought my high-born wife to kiss my hand, to pull off my boots, to fetch and carry for me like a servant, and always to make it a holiday, too, when I was in good-humour. I confided244 perhaps too much in the duration of this disciplined obedience, and forgot that the very hypocrisy245 which forms a part of it (all timid people are liars246 in their hearts) may be exerted in a way that may be far from agreeable, in order to deceive you.
After the ill-success of her last adventure, which gave me endless opportunities to banter247 her, one would have thought I might have been on my guard as to what her real intentions were; but she managed to mislead me with an art of dissimulation248 quite admirable, and lulled249 me into a fatal security with regard to her intentions: for, one day, as I was joking her, and asking her whether she would take the water again, whether she had found another lover, and so forth, she suddenly burst into tears, and, seizing hold of my hand, cried passionately out —
‘Ah, Barry, you know well enough that I have never loved but you! Was I ever so wretched that a kind word from you did not make me happy! ever so angry, but the least offer of goodwill250 on your part did not bring me to your side? Did I not give a sufficient proof of my affection for you, in bestowing251 one of the first fortunes in England upon you? Have I repined or rebuked252 you for the way you have wasted it? No, I loved you too much and too fondly; I have always loved you. From the first moment I saw you, I felt irresistibly253 attracted towards you. I saw your bad qualities, and trembled at your violence; but I could not help loving you. I married you, though I knew I was sealing my own fate in doing so; and in spite of reason and duty. What sacrifice do you want from me? I am ready to make any, so you will but love me; or, if not, that at least you will gently use me.’
I was in a particularly good humour that day, and we had a sort of reconciliation254: though my mother, when she heard the speech, and saw me softening255 towards her Ladyship, warned me solemnly, and said, ‘Depend on it, the artful hussy has some other scheme in her head now.’ The old lady was right; and I swallowed the bait which her Ladyship had prepared to entrap256 me as simply as any gudgeon takes a hook.
I had been trying to negotiate with a man for some money, for which I had pressing occasion; but since our dispute regarding the affair of the succession, my Lady had resolutely257 refused to sign any papers for my advantage: and without her name, I am sorry to say, my own was of little value in the market, and I could not get a guinea from any money-dealer in London or Dublin. Nor could I get the rascals from the latter place to visit me at Castle Lyndon: owing to that unlucky affair I had with Lawyer Sharp when I made him lend me the money he brought down, and old Salmon258 the Jew being robbed of the bond I gave him after leaving my house, [Footnote: These exploits of Mr. Lyndon are not related in the narrative259. He probably, in the cases above alluded260 to, took the law into his own hands.] the people would not trust themselves within my walls any more. Our rents, too, were in the hands of receivers by this time, and it was as much as I could do to get enough money from the rascals to pay my wine-merchants their bills. Our English property, as I have said, was equally hampered; and, as often as I applied261 to my lawyers and agents for money, would come a reply demanding money of me, for debts and pretended claims which the rapacious262 rascals said they had on me.
It was, then, with some feelings of pleasure that I got a letter from my confidential263 man in Gray’s Inn, London, saying (in reply to some ninety-ninth demand of mine) that he thought he could get me some money; and inclosing a letter from a respectable firm in the city of London, connected with the mining interest, which offered to redeem264 the incumbrance in taking a long lease of certain property of ours, which was still pretty free, upon the Countess’s signature; and provided they could be assured of her free will in giving it. They said they heard she lived in terror of her life from me, and meditated265 a separation, in which case she might repudiate266 any deeds signed by her while in durance, and subject them, at any rate, to a doubtful and expensive litigation; and demanded to be made assured of her Ladyship’s perfect free will in the transaction before they advanced a shilling of their capital.
Their terms were so exorbitant267, that I saw at once their offer must be sincere; and, as my Lady was in her gracious mood, had no difficulty in persuading her to write a letter, in her own hand, declaring that the accounts of our misunderstandings were utter calumnies; that we lived in perfect union, and that she was quite ready to execute any deed which her husband might desire her to sign.
This proposal was a very timely one, and filled me with great hopes. I have not pestered268 my readers with many accounts of my debts and law affairs; which were by this time so vast and complicated that I never thoroughly knew them myself, and was rendered half wild by their urgency. Suffice it to say, my money was gone — my credit was done. I was living at Castle Lyndon off my own beef and mutton, and the bread, turf, and potatoes off my own estate: I had to watch Lady Lyndon within, and the bailiffs without. For the last two years, since I went to Dublin to receive money (which I unluckily lost at play there, to the disappointment of my creditors), I did not venture to show in that city: and could only appear at our own county town at rare intervals269, and because I knew the sheriffs: whom I swore I would murder if any ill chance happened to me. A chance of a good loan, then, was the most welcome prospect270 possible to me, and I hailed it with all the eagerness imaginable.
In reply to Lady Lyndon’s letter, came, in course of time, an answer from the confounded London merchants, stating that if her Ladyship would confirm by word of mouth, at their counting-house in Birchin Lane, London, the statement of her letter, they, having surveyed her property, would no doubt come to terms; but they declined incurring271 the risk of a visit to Castle Lyndon to negotiate, as they were aware how other respectable parties, such as Messrs. Sharp and Salmon of Dublin, had been treated there. This was a hit at me; but there are certain situations in which people can’t dictate135 their own terms: and, ‘faith, I was so pressed now for money, that I could have signed a bond with Old Nick himself, if he had come provided with a good round sum.
I resolved to go and take the Countess to London. It was in vain that my mother prayed and warned me. ‘Depend on it,’ says she, ‘there is some artifice. When once you get into that wicked town, you are not safe. Here you may live for years and years, in luxury and splendour, barring claret and all the windows broken; but as soon as they have you in London, they’ll get the better of my poor innocent lad; and the first thing I shall hear of you will be, that you are in trouble.’
‘Why go, Redmond?’ said my wife. ‘I am happy here, as long as you are kind to me, as you are now. We can’t appear in London as we ought; the little money you will get will be spent, like all the rest has been. Let us turn shepherd and shepherdess, and look to our flocks and be content.’ And she took my hand and kissed it; while my mother only said, ‘Humph! I believe she’s at the bottom of it — the wicked SCHAMER!’
I told my wife she was a fool; bade Mrs. Barry not be uneasy, and was hot upon going: I would take no denial from either party. How I was to get the money to go was the question; but that was solved by my good mother, who was always ready to help me on a pinch, and who produced sixty guineas from a stocking. This was all the ready money that Barry Lyndon, of Castle Lyndon, and married to a fortune of forty thousand a year, could command: such had been the havoc272 made in this fine fortune by my own extravagance (as I must confess), but chiefly by my misplaced confidence and the rascality of others.
We did not start in state, you may be sure. We did not let the country know we were going, or leave notice of adieu with our neighbours. The famous Mr. Barry Lyndon and his noble wife travelled in a hack-chaise and pair to Waterford, under the name of Mr. and Mrs. Jones, and thence took shipping273 for Bristol, where we arrived quite without accident. When a man is going to the deuce, how easy and pleasant the journey is! The thought of the money quite put me in a good humour, and my wife, as she lay on my shoulder in the post-chaise going to London, said it was the happiest ride she had taken since our marriage.
One night we stayed at Reading, whence I despatched a note to my agent at Gray’s Inn, saying I would be with him during the day, and begging him to procure274 me a lodging275, and to hasten the preparations for the loan. My Lady and I agreed that we would go to France, and wait there for better times; and that night, over our supper, formed a score of plans both for pleasure and retrenchment276. You would have thought it was Darby and Joan together over their supper. O woman! woman! when I recollect Lady Lyndon’s smiles and blandishments — how happy she seemed to be on that night! what an air of innocent confidence appeared in her behaviour, and what affectionate names she called me! — I am lost in wonder at the depth of her hypocrisy. Who can be surprised that an unsuspecting person like myself should have been a victim to such a consummate277 deceiver!
We were in London at three o’clock, and half-an-hour before the time appointed our chaise drove to Gray’s Inn. I easily found out Mr. Tapewell’s apartments — a gloomy den15 it was, and in an unlucky hour I entered it! As we went up the dirty back-stair, lighted by a feeble lamp and the dim sky of a dismal278 London afternoon, my wife seemed agitated and faint.
‘Redmond,’ said she, as we got up to the door, ‘don’t go in: I am sure there is danger. There’s time yet; let us go back — to Ireland — anywhere!’ And she put herself before the door, in one of her theatrical279 attitudes, and took my hand.
I just pushed her away to one side. ‘Lady Lyndon,’ said I, ‘you are an old fool!’
‘Old fool!’ said she; and she jumped at the bell, which was quickly answered by a mouldy-looking gentleman in an unpowdered wig280, to whom she cried, ‘Say Lady Lyndon is here;’ and stalked down the passage muttering ‘Old fool.’ It was ‘OLD’ which was the epithet281 that touched her. I might call her anything but that.
Mr. Tapewell was in his musty room, surrounded by his parchments and tin boxes. He advanced and bowed; begged her Ladyship to be seated; pointed towards a chair for me, which I took, rather wondering at his insolence; and then retreated to a side-door, saying he would be back in one moment.
And back he DID come in one moment, bringing with him — whom do you think? Another lawyer, six constables282 in red waistcoats with bludgeons and pistols, my Lord George Poynings, and his aunt Lady Jane Peckover.
When my Lady Lyndon saw her old flame, she flung herself into his arms in an hysterical283 passion. She called him her saviour284, her preserver, her gallant knight; and then, turning round to me, poured out a flood of invective285 which quite astonished me.
‘Old fool as I am,’ said she, ‘I have outwitted the most crafty286 and treacherous287 monster under the sun. Yes, I WAS a fool when I married you, and gave up other and nobler hearts for your sake — yes, I was a fool when I forgot my name and lineage to unite myself with a base-born adventurer — a fool to bear, without repining, the most monstrous tyranny that ever woman suffered; to allow my property to be squandered288; to see women, as base and low-born as yourself’—
‘For Heaven’s sake, be calm!’ cries the lawyer; and then bounded back behind the constables, seeing a threatening look in my eye which the rascal did not like. Indeed. I could have torn him to pieces, had he come near me. Meanwhile, my Lady continued in a strain of incoherent fury; screaming against me, and against my mother especially, upon whom she heaped abuse worthy of Billingsgate, and always beginning and ending the sentence with the word fool.
‘You don’t tell all, my Lady,’ says I bitterly; ‘I said OLD fool.’
‘I have no doubt you said and did, sir, everything that a blackguard could say or do,’ interposed little Poynings. ‘This lady is now safe under the protection of her relations and the law, and need fear your infamous289 persecutions no longer.’
‘But YOU are not safe,’ roared I; ‘and, as sure as I am a man of honour, and have tasted your blood once, I will have your heart’s blood now.’
‘Take down his words, constables: swear the peace against him!’ screamed the little lawyer, from behind his tipstaffs.
‘I would not sully my sword with the blood of such a ruffian,’ cried my Lord, relying on the same doughty290 protection. ‘If the scoundrel remains291 in London another day, he will be seized as a common swindler.’ And this threat indeed made me wince292; for I knew that there were scores of writs out against me in town, and that once in prison my case was hopeless.
‘Where’s the man will seize me!’ shouted I, drawing my sword, and placing my back to the door. ‘Let the scoundrel come. You — you cowardly braggart293, come first, if you have the soul of a man!’
‘We’re not going to seize you!’ said the lawyer; my Ladyship, her aunt, and a division of the bailiffs moving off as he spoke. ‘My dear sir, we don’t wish to seize you: we will give you a handsome sum to leave the country; only leave her Ladyship in peace!’
‘And the country will be well rid of such a villain!’ says my Lord, retreating too, and not sorry to get out of my reach: and the scoundrel of a lawyer followed him, leaving me in possession of the apartment, and in company of the bullies294 from the police-office, who were all armed to the teeth. I was no longer the man I was at twenty, when I should have charged the ruffians sword in hand, and have sent at least one of them to his account. I was broken in spirit; regularly caught in the toils: utterly295 baffled and beaten by that woman. Was she relenting at the door, when she paused and begged me turn back? Had she not a lingering love for me still? Her conduct showed it, as I came to reflect on it. It was my only chance now left in the world, so I put down my sword upon the lawyer’s desk.
‘Gentlemen,’ said I, ‘I shall use no violence; you may tell Mr. Tapewell I am quite ready to speak with him when he is at leisure!’ and I sat down and folded my arms quite peaceably. What a change from the Barry Lyndon of old days! but, as I have read in an old book about Hannibal the Carthaginian general, when he invaded the Romans, his troops, which were the most gallant in the world, and carried all before them, went into cantonments in some city where they were so sated with the luxuries and pleasures of life, that they were easily beaten in the next campaign. It was so with me now. My strength of mind and body were no longer those of the brave youth who shot his man at fifteen, and fought a score of battles within six years afterwards. Now, in the Fleet Prison, where I write this, there is a small man who is always jeering296 me and making game of me; who asks me to fight, and I haven’t the courage to touch him. But I am anticipating the gloomy and wretched events of my history of humiliation161, and had better proceed in order.
I took a lodging in a coffee-house near Gray’s Inn; taking care to inform Mr. Tapewell of my whereabouts, and anxiously expecting a visit from him. He came and brought me the terms which Lady Lyndon’s friends proposed-a paltry annuity297 of L300 a year; to be paid on the condition of my remaining abroad out of the three kingdoms, and to be stopped on the instant of my return. He told me what I very well knew, that my stay in London would infallibly plunge53 me in gaol149; that there were writs innumerable taken out against me here, and in the West of England; that my credit was so blown upon that I could not hope to raise a shilling; and he left me a night to consider of his proposal; saying that, if I refused it, the family would proceed: if I acceded298, a quarter’s salary should be paid to me at any foreign port I should prefer.
What was the poor, lonely, and broken-hearted man to do? I took the annuity, and was declared outlaw299 in the course of next week. The rascal Quin had, I found, been, after all, the cause of my undoing300. It was he devised the scheme for bringing me up to London; sealing the attorney’s letter with a seal which had been agreed upon between him and the Countess formerly301: indeed he had always been for trying the plan, and had proposed it at first; but her Ladyship, with her inordinate love of romance, preferred the project of elopement. Of these points my mother wrote me word in my lonely exile, offering at the same time to come over and share it with me; which proposal I declined. She left Castle Lyndon a very short time after I had quitted it; and there was silence in that hall where, under my authority, had been exhibited so much hospitality and splendour. She thought she would never see me again, and bitterly reproached me for neglecting her; but she was mistaken in that, and in her estimate of me. She is very old, and is sitting by my side at this moment in the prison, working: she has a bedroom in Fleet Market over the way; and, with the fifty-pound annuity, which she has kept with a wise prudence, we manage to eke179 out a miserable302 existence, quite unworthy of the famous and fashionable Barry Lyndon.
Mr. Barry Lyndon’s personal narrative finishes here, for the hand of death interrupted the ingenious author soon after the period at which the Memoir303 was compiled; after he had lived nineteen years an inmate304 of the Fleet Prison, where the prison records state he died of delirium305 tremens. His mother attained306 a prodigious307 old age, and the inhabitants of the place in her time can record with accuracy the daily disputes which used to take place between mother and son; until the latter, from habits of intoxication, falling into a state of almost imbecility, was tended by his tough old parent as a baby almost, and would cry if deprived of his necessary glass of brandy.
His life on the Continent we have not the means of following accurately308; but he appears to have resumed his former profession of a gambler, without his former success.
He returned secretly to England, after some time, and made an abortive309 attempt to extort310 money from Lord George Poynings, under a threat of publishing his correspondence with Lady Lyndon, and so preventing his Lordship’s match with Miss Driver, a great heiress, of strict principles, and immense property in slaves in the West Indies. Barry narrowly escaped being taken prisoner by the bailiffs who were despatched after him by his lordship, who would have stopped his pension; but Lady Lyndon would never consent to that act of justice, and, indeed, broke with my Lord George the very moment he married the West India lady.
The fact is, the old Countess thought her charms were perennial311, and was never out of love with her husband. She was living at Bath; her property being carefully nursed by her noble relatives the Tiptoffs, who were to succeed to it in default of direct heirs: and such was the address of Barry, and the sway he still held over the woman, that he actually had almost persuaded her to go and live with him again; when his plan and hers was interrupted by the appearance of a person who had been deemed dead for several years.
This was no other than Viscount Bullingdon, who started up to the surprise of all; and especially to that of his kinsman of the house of Tiptoff. This young nobleman made his appearance at Bath, with the letter from Barry to Lord George in his hand; in which the former threatened to expose his connection with Lady Lyndon — a connection, we need not state, which did not reflect the slightest dishonour22 upon either party, and only showed that her Ladyship was in the habit of writing exceedingly foolish letters; as many ladies, nay312 gentlemen, have done ere this. For calling the honour of his mother in question, Lord Bullingdon assaulted his stepfather (living at Bath under the name of Mr. Jones), and administered to him a tremendous castigation313 in the Pump-Room.
His Lordship’s history, since his departure, was a romantic one, which we do not feel bound to narrate72. He had been wounded in the American War, reported dead, left prisoner, and escaped. The remittances314 which were promised him were never sent; the thought of the neglect almost broke the heart of the wild and romantic young man, and he determined to remain dead to the world at least, and to the mother who had denied him. It was in the woods of Canada, and three years after the event had occurred, that he saw the death of his half-brother chronicled in the Gentleman’s Magazine, under the title of ‘Fatal Accident to Lord Viscount Castle Lyndon;’ on which he determined to return to England: where, though he made himself known, it was with very great difficulty indeed that he satisfied Lord Tiptoff of the authenticity315 of his claim. He was about to pay a visit to his lady mother at Bath, when he recognised the well-known face of Mr. Barry Lyndon, in spite of the modest disguise which that gentleman wore, and revenged upon his person the insults of former days.
Lady Lyndon was furious when she heard of the rencounter; declined to see her son, and was for rushing at once to the arms of her adored Barry; but that gentleman had been carried off, meanwhile, from gaol to gaol, until he was lodged316 in the hands of Mr. Bendigo, of Chancery Lane, an assistant to the Sheriff of Middlesex; from whose house he went to the Fleet Prison. The Sheriff and his assistant, the prisoner, nay, the prison itself, are now no more.
As long as Lady Lyndon lived, Barry enjoyed his income, and was perhaps as happy in prison as at any period of his existence; when her Ladyship died, her successor sternly cut off the annuity, devoting the sum to charities: which, he said, would make a nobler use of it than the scoundrel who had enjoyed it hitherto. At his Lordship’s death, in the Spanish campaign, in the year 1811, his estate fell in to the family of the Tiptoffs, and his title merged317 in their superior rank; but it does not appear that the Marquis of Tiptoff (Lord George succeeded to the title on the demise318 of his brother) renewed either the pension of Mr. Barry or the charities which the late lord had endowed. The estate has vastly improved under his Lordship’s careful management. The trees in Hackton Park are all about forty years old, and the Irish property is rented in exceedingly small farms to the peasantry; who still entertain the stranger with stories of the daring and the devilry, and the wickedness and the fall of Barry Lyndon.
The End
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1
gorged
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的过去式和过去分词 )；作呕 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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butts
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| 笑柄( butt的名词复数 )； （武器或工具的）粗大的一端； 屁股； 烟蒂 | |
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needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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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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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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despoilment
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| n.抢夺，剥夺 | |
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shipwrights
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| n.造船者，修船者( shipwright的名词复数 ) | |
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bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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writs
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| n.书面命令，令状( writ的名词复数 ) | |
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grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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omens
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| n.前兆，预兆( omen的名词复数 ) | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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48
remit
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| v.汇款，汇寄；豁免（债务），免除（处罚等） | |
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49
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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50
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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51
scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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52
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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53
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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54
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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55
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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56
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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57
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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58
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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59
amend
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| vt.修改，修订，改进；n.[pl.]赔罪，赔偿 | |
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60
trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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61
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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62
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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calumnies
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| n.诬蔑，诽谤，中伤（的话）( calumny的名词复数 ) | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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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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narrate
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| v.讲，叙述 | |
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narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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78
remodelled
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| v.改变…的结构[形状]( remodel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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80
lawsuits
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| n.诉讼( lawsuit的名词复数 ) | |
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81
hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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83
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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84
justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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85
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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86
supplant
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| vt.排挤；取代 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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rascally
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| adj. 无赖的，恶棍的 adv. 无赖地，卑鄙地 | |
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89
broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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wedlock
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| n.婚姻，已婚状态 | |
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annuities
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| n.养老金；年金( annuity的名词复数 )；（每年的）养老金；年金保险；年金保险投资 | |
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98
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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99
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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100
entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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101
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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102
toils
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| 网 | |
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103
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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104
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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105
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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106
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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107
rascality
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| 流氓性，流氓集团 | |
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108
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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109
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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110
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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111
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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112
poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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113
minutiae
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| n.微小的细节，细枝末节；（常复数）细节，小事( minutia的名词复数 ) | |
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114
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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115
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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116
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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117
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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118
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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119
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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120
watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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121
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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122
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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123
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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124
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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125
supersede
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| v.替代；充任 | |
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126
imprisoning
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| v.下狱，监禁( imprison的现在分词 ) | |
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127
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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128
imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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129
imprisons
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| v.下狱，监禁( imprison的第三人称单数 ) | |
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130
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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131
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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132
inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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133
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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134
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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135
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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136
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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137
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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138
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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139
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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140
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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141
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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142
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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143
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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144
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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145
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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146
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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147
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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148
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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149
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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150
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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151
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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152
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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153
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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154
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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155
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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156
chivalric
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| 有武士气概的，有武士风范的 | |
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157
thrall
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| n.奴隶；奴隶制 | |
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158
felon
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| n.重罪犯；adj.残忍的 | |
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159
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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160
beseeches
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的第三人称单数 ) | |
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161
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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162
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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163
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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164
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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165
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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166
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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167
lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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168
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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169
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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170
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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171
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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172
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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173
peruse
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| v.细读，精读 | |
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174
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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175
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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176
elegy
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| n.哀歌，挽歌 | |
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177
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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178
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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179
eke
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| v.勉强度日，节约使用 | |
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180
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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181
wreak
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| v.发泄；报复 | |
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182
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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183
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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184
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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185
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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186
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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187
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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188
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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189
remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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190
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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191
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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192
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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193
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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194
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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195
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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196
boorish
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| adj.粗野的，乡巴佬的 | |
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197
spinet
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| n.小型立式钢琴 | |
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198
conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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199
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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200
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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201
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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202
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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203
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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204
mimicked
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的过去式和过去分词 )；酷似 | |
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205
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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206
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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207
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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208
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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209
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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210
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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211
scarcity
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| n.缺乏，不足，萧条 | |
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212
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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213
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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214
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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215
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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216
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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217
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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218
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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219
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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220
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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221
accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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222
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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223
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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224
postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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225
perfidious
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| adj.不忠的，背信弃义的 | |
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226
reprobate
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| n.无赖汉；堕落的人 | |
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227
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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228
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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229
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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230
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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231
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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232
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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233
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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234
hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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235
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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236
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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237
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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238
propitiate
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| v.慰解，劝解 | |
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239
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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240
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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241
fawning
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| adj.乞怜的，奉承的v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的现在分词 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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242
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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243
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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244
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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245
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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246
liars
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| 说谎者( liar的名词复数 ) | |
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247
banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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248
dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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249
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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250
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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251
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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252
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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253
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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254
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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255
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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256
entrap
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| v.以网或陷阱捕捉，使陷入圈套 | |
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257
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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258
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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259
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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260
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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261
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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262
rapacious
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| adj.贪婪的，强夺的 | |
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263
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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264
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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265
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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266
repudiate
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| v.拒绝，拒付，拒绝履行 | |
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267
exorbitant
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| adj.过分的；过度的 | |
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268
pestered
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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269
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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270
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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271
incurring
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| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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272
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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273
shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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274
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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275
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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276
retrenchment
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| n.节省，删除 | |
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277
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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278
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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279
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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280
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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281
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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282
constables
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| n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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283
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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284
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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285
invective
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| n.痛骂，恶意抨击 | |
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286
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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287
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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288
squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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289
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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290
doughty
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| adj.勇猛的，坚强的 | |
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291
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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292
wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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293
braggart
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| n.吹牛者；adj.吹牛的，自夸的 | |
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294
bullies
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| n.欺凌弱小者, 开球 vt.恐吓, 威胁, 欺负 | |
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295
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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296
jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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297
annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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298
acceded
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| v.（正式）加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 )；答应；（通过财产的添附而）增加；开始任职 | |
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299
outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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300
undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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301
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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302
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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303
memoir
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| n.[pl.]回忆录，自传；记事录 | |
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304
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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305
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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306
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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307
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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308
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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309
abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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310
extort
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| v.勒索，敲诈，强要 | |
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311
perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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312
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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313
castigation
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| n.申斥，强烈反对 | |
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314
remittances
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| n.汇寄( remittance的名词复数 )；汇款，汇款额 | |
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315
authenticity
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| n.真实性 | |
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316
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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317
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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318
demise
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| n.死亡；v.让渡，遗赠，转让 | |
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