To-night he came to a full stop; he simply sat at the door of the most dandified café in Paris and felt his pulse and took stock of his impressions. He had been intending to visit the Variétés theatre, which blazed through intermediate lights and through the thin foliage9 of trees not favoured by the asphalt, on the other side of the great avenue. But the impression of Chaumont – he relinquished10 that, for the present; it added to the luxury of his situation to reflect that he should still have plenty of time to see the succès du jour. The same effect proceeded from his determination to order a marquise, when the waiter, whose superior shirt-front and whisker emerged from the long white cylinder11 of an apron12, came to take his commands. He knew the decoction was expensive – he had learnt as much at the moment he happened to overhear, for the first time, a mention of it; which had been the night before, in his place in a stall, during an entr’acte, at the Comédie Fran?aise. A gentleman beside him, a young man in evening-dress, conversing13 with an acquaintance in the row behind, recommended the latter to refresh himself with the article in question after the play: there was nothing like it, the speaker remarked, of a hot evening, in the open air, when one was thirsty. The waiter brought Hyacinth a tall glass of champagne14, in which a pine-apple ice was in solution, and our hero felt that he had hoped for a sensation no less delicate when he looked for an empty table on Tortoni’s terrace. Very few tables were empty, and it was his belief that the others were occupied by high celebrities15; at any rate they were just the types he had had a prevision of and had wanted most to meet, when the extraordinary opportunity to come abroad with his pocket full of money (it was more extraordinary, even, than his original meeting with the Princess) became real to him in Lomax Place. He knew about Tortoni’s from his study of the French novel, and as he sat there he had a vague sense of fraternising with Balzac and Alfred de Musset; there were echoes and reminiscences of their works in the air, confounding themselves with the indefinable exhalations, the strange composite odour, half agreeable, half impure16, of the boulevard. ‘Splendid Paris, charming Paris’ – that refrain, the fragment of an invocation, a beginning without an end, hummed itself perpetually in Hyacinth’s ears; the only articulate words that got themselves uttered in the hymn17 of praise which his imagination had been offering to the French capital from the first hour of his stay. He recognised, he greeted, with a thousand palpitations, the seat of his maternal18 ancestors – was proud to be associated with so much of the superb, so many proofs of a civilisation19 that had no visible rough spots. He had his perplexities, and he had even now and then a revulsion for which he had made no allowance, as when it came over him that the most brilliant city in the world was also the most blood-stained; but the great sense that he understood and sympathised was preponderant, and his comprehension gave him wings – appeared to transport him to still wider fields of knowledge, still higher sensations.
In other days, in London, he had thought again and again of his mother’s father, the revolutionary watch-maker who had known the ecstasy20 of the barricade21 and had paid for it with his life, and his reveries had not been sensibly chilled by the fact that he knew next to nothing about him. He figured him in his mind, had a conviction that he was very short, like himself, and had curly hair, an immense talent for his work and an extraordinary natural eloquence22, together with many of the most attractive qualities of the French character. But he was reckless, and a little cracked, and probably immoral23; he had difficulties and debts and irrepressible passions; his life had been an incurable24 fever and its tragic25 termination was a matter of course. None the less it would have been a charm to hear him talk, to feel the influence of a gaiety which even political madness could never quench26; for his grandson had a theory that he spoke27 the French tongue of an earlier time, delightful28 and sociable29 in accent and phrase, exempt30 from the commonness of modern slang. This vague yet vivid personage became Hyacinth’s constant companion, from the day of his arrival; he roamed about with Florentine’s boy, hand in hand, sat opposite to him at dinner, at the small table in the restaurant, finished the bottle with him, made the bill a little longer, and treated him to innumerable revelations and counsels. He knew the lad’s secret without being told, and looked at him across the diminutive31 tablecloth32, where the great tube of bread, pushed aside a little, left room for his elbows (it puzzled Hyacinth that the people of Paris should ever have had the fierceness of hunger when the loaves were so big), gazed at him with eyes of deep, kind, glowing comprehension and with lips which seemed to murmur that when one was to die to-morrow one was wise to eat and drink to-day. There was nothing venerable, no constraint33 of importance or disapproval34, in this edifying35 and impalpable presence; the young man considered that Hyacinthe Vivier was of his own time of life and could enter into his pleasures as well as his pains. Wondering, repeatedly, where the barricade on which his grandfather fell had been erected36, he at last satisfied himself (but I am unable to trace the process of the induction) that it had bristled37 across the Rue38 Saint-Honoré, very near to the church of Saint-Roch. The pair had now roamed together through all the museums and gardens, through the principal churches (the republican martyr39 was very good-natured about this), through the passages and arcades40, up and down the great avenues, across all the bridges, and above all, again and again, along the river, where the quays41 were an endless entertainment to Hyacinth, who lingered by the half-hour beside the boxes of old books on the parapets, stuffing his pockets with five-penny volumes, while the bright industries of the Seine flashed and glittered beneath him, and on the other bank the glorious Louvre stretched either way for a league. Our young man took almost the same sort of satisfaction in the Louvre as if he had erected it; he haunted the museum during all the first days, and couldn’t look enough at certain pictures, nor sufficiently42 admire the high polish of the great floors in which the golden, frescoed43 ceilings repeated themselves. All Paris struck him as tremendously artistic44 and decorative45; he felt as if hitherto he had lived in a dusky, frowsy, Philistine46 world, in which the taste was the taste of Little Pedlington and the idea of beautiful arrangement had never had an influence. In his ancestral city it had been active from the first, and that was why his quick sensibility responded; and he murmured again his constant refrain, when the fairness of the great monuments arrested him, in the pearly, silvery light, or he saw them take gray-blue, delicate tones at the end of stately vistas47. It seemed to him that Paris expressed herself, and did it in the grand style, while London remained vague and blurred48, inarticulate, blunt and dim.
Eustache Poupin had given him letters to three or four democratic friends, ardent50 votaries51 of the social question, who had by a miracle either escaped the cruelty of exile or suffered the outrage52 of pardon, and, in spite of republican mouchards, no less infamous53 than the imperial, and the periodical swoops54 of despotism which had only changed its buttons and postage-stamps, kept alive the sacred spark which would some day become a consuming flame. Hyacinth, however, had not had the thought of delivering these introductions; he had accepted them because Poupin had had such a solemn glee in writing them, and also because he had not the courage to let the couple in Lisson Grove55 know that since that terrible night at Hoffendahl’s a change had come over the spirit of his dream. He had not grown more concentrated, he had grown more relaxed, and it was inconsistent with relaxation56 that he should rummage57 out Poupin’s friends – one of whom lived in the Batignolles and the others in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine – and pretend that he cared for what they cared for in the same way as they cared for it. What was supreme58 in his mind to-day was not the idea of how the society that surrounded him should be destroyed; it was, much more, the sense of the wonderful, precious things it had produced, of the brilliant, impressive fabric59 it had raised. That destruction was waiting for it there was forcible evidence, known to himself and others, to show; but since this truth had risen before him, in its magnitude he had become conscious of a transfer, partial if not complete, of his sympathies; the same revulsion of which he had given a sign to the Princess in saying that now he pitied the rich, those who were regarded as happy. While the evening passed, therefore, as he kept his place at Tortoni’s, the emotion that was last to visit him was a compunction for not having put himself in relation with poor Poupin’s friends, for having neglected to make the acquaintance of earnest people.
Who in the world, if one should come to that, was as earnest as he himself, or had given such signal even though secret proofs of it? He could lay that unction to his soul in spite of his having amused himself cynically60, spent all his time in theatres, galleries, walks of pleasure. The feeling had not failed him with which he accepted Mr Vetch’s furtherance – the sense that since he was destined61 to perish in his flower he was right to make a dash at the beautiful, horrible world. That reflection had been natural enough, but what was strange was the fiddler’s own impulse, his desire to do something pleasant for him, to beguile62 him and ship him off. What had been most odd in that was the way Mr Vetch appeared to overlook the fact that his young friend had already had, that year, such an episode of dissipation as was surely rare in the experience of London artisans. This was one of the many things Hyacinth thought of; he thought of the others in turn and out of turn; it was almost the first time he had sat still long enough (except at the theatre) to collect himself. A hundred confused reverberations of the recent past crowded upon him, and he saw that he had lived more intensely in the previous six months than in all the rest of his existence. The succession of events finally straightened itself, and he tasted some of the rarest, strangest moments over again. His last week at Medley63, in especial, had already become a kind of fable64, the echo of a song; he could read it over like a story, gaze at it as he would have gazed at some exquisite65 picture. His visit there had been perfect to the end, and even the three days that Captain Sholto’s sojourn66 lasted had not broken the spell, for the three more that had elapsed before his own departure (the Princess herself had given him the signal) were the most important of all. It was then the Princess had made it clear to him that she was in earnest, was prepared for the last sacrifice. She was now his standard of comparison, his authority, his measure, his perpetual reference; and in taking possession of his mind to this extent she had completely renewed it. She was altogether a new term, and now that he was in a foreign country he observed how much her conversation, itself so foreign, had prepared him to understand it. In Paris he saw, of course, a great many women, and he noticed almost all of them, especially the actresses; confronting, mentally, their movement, their speech, their manner of dressing67, with that of his extraordinary friend. He judged that she was beyond them in every respect, though there were one or two actresses who had the air of trying to copy her.
The recollection of the last days he had spent with her affected68 him now like the touch of a tear-washed cheek. She had shed tears for him, and it was his suspicion that her secret idea was to frustrate69 the redemption of his vow70 to Hoffendahl, to the immeasurable body that Hoffendahl represented. She pretended to have accepted it, and what she said was simply that when he should have played his part she would engage to save him – to fling a cloud about him, as the goddess-mother of the Trojan hero used, in Virgil’s poem, to escamoter ?neas. What she meant was, in his view, to prevent him from playing his part at all. She was earnest for herself, not for him. The main result of his concentrated intimacy71 with her had been to make him feel that he was good enough for anything. When he had asked her, the last day, if he might write to her, she had said, Yes, but not for two or three weeks. He had written after Pinnie’s death, and again just before coming abroad, and in doing so had taken account of something else she had said in regard to their correspondence – that she didn’t wish vague phrases, protestations or compliments; she wanted the realities of his life, the smallest, most personal details. Therefore he had treated her to the whole business of the break-up in Lomax Place, including the sale of the rickety furniture. He had told her what that transaction brought – a beggarly sum, but sufficient to help a little to pay debts; and he had informed her furthermore that one of the ways Mr Vetch had taken to hurry him off to Paris was to offer him a present of thirty pounds out of his curious little hoard72, to add to the sum already inherited from Pinnie – which, in a manner that none of Hyacinth’s friends, of course, could possibly regard as frugal73, or even as respectable, was now consecrated74 to a mere75 excursion. He even mentioned that he had ended by accepting the thirty pounds, adding that he feared there was something demoralising in his peculiar76 situation (she would know what he meant by that): it disposed one to take what one could get, made one at least very tolerant of whims77 that happened to be munificent78.
What he did not mention to the Princess was the manner in which he had been received by Paul Muniment and by Millicent Henning on his return from Medley. Millicent’s reception had been the queerest; it had been quite unexpectedly mild. She made him no scene of violence, and appeared to have given up the line of throwing a blur49 of recrimination over her own nefarious79 doings. She treated him as if she liked him for having got in with the swells80; she had an appreciation81 of success which would lead her to handle him more tenderly now that he was really successful. She tried to make him describe the style of life that was led in a house where people were invited to stay like that without having to pay, and she surprised him almost as much as she gratified him by not indulging in any of her former digs at the Princess. She was lavish82 of ejaculations when he answered certain of her questions – ejaculations that savoured of Pimlico, “Oh, I say!” and “Oh, my stars!” – and he was more than ever struck with her detestable habit of saying, “Aye, that’s where it is,” when he had made some remark to which she wished to give an intelligent and sympathetic assent83. But she didn’t jeer84 at the Princess’s private character; she stayed her satire85, in a case where there was such an opening for it. Hyacinth reflected that this was lucky for her: he couldn’t have stood it (nervous and anxious as he was about Pinnie) if she had had the bad taste, at such a time as that, to be profane86 and insulting. In that case he would have broken with her completely – he would have been too disgusted. She displeased87 him enough, as it was, by her vulgar tricks of speech. There were two or three little recurrent irregularities that aggravated88 him to a degree quite out of proportion to their importance, as when she said ‘full up’ for full, ‘sold out’ for sold, or remarked to him that she supposed he was now going to chuck up his work at old Crookenden’s. These phrases had fallen upon his ear many a time before, but now they seemed almost unpardonable enough to quarrel about. Not that he had any wish to quarrel, for if the question had been pushed he would have admitted that to-day his intimacy with the Princess had caused any rights he might have had upon Millicent to lapse5. Millicent did not push it, however; she only, it was evident, wished to convey to him that it was better for both parties they should respect each other’s liberty. A genial89 understanding on this subject was what Miss Henning desired, and Hyacinth forbade himself to inquire what use she proposed to make of her freedom. During the month that elapsed between Pinnie’s death and his visit to Paris he had seen her several times, for the respect for each other’s freedom had somehow not implied cessation of intercourse90, and it was only natural she should have been soft to him in his bereaved91 condition. Hyacinth’s sentiment about Pinnie was deep, and Millicent was clever enough to guess it; the consequence of which was that on these occasions she was very soft indeed. She talked to him almost as if she had been his mother and he a convalescent child; called him her dear, and a young rascal92, and her old boy; moralised a good deal, abstained93 from beer (till she learned he had inherited a fortune), and when he remarked once (moralising a little, too) that after the death of a person we have loved we are haunted by the memory of our failures of kindness, of generosity94, rejoined, with a dignity that made the words almost a contribution to philosophy, “Yes, that’s where it is!”
Something in her behaviour at this period had even made Hyacinth wonder whether there were not some mystical sign in his appearance, some subtle betrayal in the very expression of his face, of the predicament in which he had been placed by Diedrich Hoffendahl; he began to suspect afresh the operation of that ‘beastly attendrissement’ he had detected of old in people who had the benefit of Miss Pynsent’s innuendoes95. The compassion96 Millicent felt for him had never been one of the reasons why he liked her; it had fortunately been corrected, moreover, by his power to make her furious. This evening, on the boulevard, as he watched the interminable successions, one of the ideas that came to him was that it was odd he should like her even yet; for heaven knew he liked the Princess better, and he had hitherto supposed that when a sentiment of this kind had the energy of a possession it made a clean sweep of all minor97 predilections98. But it was clear to him that Millicent still existed for him; that he couldn’t feel he had quite done with her, or she with him; and that in spite of his having now so many other things to admire there was still a comfort in the recollection of her robust99 beauty and her primitive100 passions. Hyacinth thought of her as some clever young barbarian101 who in ancient days should have made a pilgrimage to Rome might have thought of a Dacian or Iberian mistress awaiting his return on the rough provincial102 shore. If Millicent considered his visit at a ‘hall’ a proof of the sort of success that was to attend him (how he reconciled this with the supposition that she perceived, as a ghostly irradiation, intermingled with his curly hair, the aureola of martyrdom, he would have had some difficulty in explaining), if Miss Henning considered, on his return from Medley, that he had taken his place on the winning side, it was only consistent of her to borrow a grandeur103 from his further travels; and, indeed, by the time he was ready to start she spoke of the plan as if she had invented it herself and even contributed materially to the funds required. It had been her theory, from the first, that she only liked people of spirit; and Hyacinth certainly had never had so much spirit as when he launched himself into Continental104 adventures. He could say to himself, quite without bitterness, that of course she would profit by his absence to put her relations with Sholto on a comfortable footing; yet, somehow, at this moment, as her face came back to him amid the crowd of faces about him, it had not that gentleman’s romantic shadow across it. It was the brilliancy of Paris, perhaps, that made him see things rosy105; at any rate, he remembered with kindness something that she had said to him the last time he saw her and that had touched him exceedingly at the moment. He had happened to observe to her, in a friendly way, that now Miss Pynsent had gone she was, with the exception of Mr Vetch, the person in his whole circle who had known him longest. To this Millicent had replied that Mr Vetch wouldn’t live for ever, and then she should have the satisfaction of being his very oldest friend. “Oh, well, I shan’t live for ever, either,” said Hyacinth; which led her to inquire whether by chance he had a weakness of the chest. “Not that I know of, but I might get killed in a row;” and when she broke out into scorn of his silly notion of turning everything up (as if any one wanted to know what a costermonger would like, or any of that low sort at the East End!) he amused himself with asking her if she were satisfied with the condition of society and thought nothing ought to be done for people who, at the end of a lifetime of starvation-wages, had only the reward of the hideous106 workhouse and a pauper’s grave.
“I shouldn’t be satisfied with anything, if ever you was to slip up,” Millicent answered, simply, looking at him with her beautiful boldness. Then she added, “There’s one thing I can tell you, Mr Robinson: that if ever any one was to do you a turn —” And she paused again, tossing back the head she carried as if it were surmounted107 by a tiara, while Hyacinth inquired what would occur in that contingency108. “Well, there’d be one left behind who would take it up!” she announced; and in the tone of the declaration there was something brave and genuine. It struck Hyacinth as a strange fate – though not stranger, after all, than his native circumstances – that one’s memory should come to be represented by a shop-girl overladen with bracelets109 of imitation silver; but he was reminded that Millicent was a fine specimen110 of a woman of a type opposed to the whining111, and that in her free temperament112 many disparities were reconciled.
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1
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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flamboyant
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| adj.火焰般的，华丽的，炫耀的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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satiety
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| n.饱和；(市场的)充分供应 | |
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8
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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cylinder
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| n.圆筒，柱(面)，汽缸 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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16
impure
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| adj.不纯净的，不洁的；不道德的，下流的 | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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barricade
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| n.路障，栅栏，障碍；vt.设路障挡住 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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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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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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exempt
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| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
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diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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bristled
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| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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arcades
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| n.商场( arcade的名词复数 )；拱形走道（两旁有商店或娱乐设施）；连拱廊；拱形建筑物 | |
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quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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frescoed
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| 壁画( fresco的名词复数 )； 温壁画技法，湿壁画 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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45
decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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philistine
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| n.庸俗的人；adj.市侩的，庸俗的 | |
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47
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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48
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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49
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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50
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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51
votaries
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| n.信徒( votary的名词复数 )；追随者；（天主教）修士；修女 | |
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52
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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53
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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54
swoops
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| 猛扑，突然下降( swoop的名词复数 ) | |
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55
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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56
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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57
rummage
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| v./n.翻寻，仔细检查 | |
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58
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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59
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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60
cynically
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| adv.爱嘲笑地，冷笑地 | |
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61
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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62
beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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63
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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64
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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65
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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66
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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67
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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68
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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69
frustrate
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| v.使失望；使沮丧；使厌烦 | |
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70
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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71
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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72
hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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73
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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74
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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75
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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76
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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77
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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78
munificent
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| adj.慷慨的，大方的 | |
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nefarious
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| adj.恶毒的，极坏的 | |
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80
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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81
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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82
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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83
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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84
jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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85
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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86
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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87
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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88
aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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90
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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91
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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92
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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93
abstained
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| v.戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的过去式和过去分词 )；弃权（不投票） | |
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94
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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95
innuendoes
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| n.影射的话( innuendo的名词复数 )；讽刺的话；含沙射影；暗讽 | |
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96
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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97
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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98
predilections
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| n.偏爱，偏好，嗜好( predilection的名词复数 ) | |
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99
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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100
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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101
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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102
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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103
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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104
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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105
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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106
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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107
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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108
contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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109
bracelets
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| n.手镯，臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
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110
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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111
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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112
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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