One afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was reclining in a luxurious1 arm-chair, in the little library of Lord Henry's house in Mayfair. It was, in its way, a very charming room, with its high panelled wainscoting of olive-stained oak, its cream-coloured frieze2 and ceiling of raised plasterwork, and its brickdust felt carpet strewn with silk, long-fringed Persian rugs. On a tiny satinwood table stood a statuette by Clodion, and beside it lay a copy of Les Cent Nouvelles, bound for Margaret of Valois by Clovis Eve and powdered with the gilt3 daisies that Queen had selected for her device. Some large blue china jars and parrot-tulips were ranged on the mantelshelf, and through the small leaded panes4 of the window streamed the apricot-coloured light of a summer day in London.
Lord Henry had not yet come in. He was always late on principle, his principle being that punctuality is the thief of time. So the lad was looking rather sulky, as with listless fingers he turned over the pages of an elaborately illustrated5 edition of Manon Lescaut that he had found in one of the book-cases. The formal monotonous6 ticking of the Louis Quatorze clock annoyed him. Once or twice he thought of going away.
At last he heard a step outside, and the door opened. "How late you are, Harry7!" he murmured.
"I am afraid it is not Harry, Mr. Gray," answered a shrill8 voice.
He glanced quickly round and rose to his feet. "I beg your pardon. I thought--"
"You thought it was my husband. It is only his wife. You must let me introduce myself. I know you quite well by your photographs. I think my husband has got seventeen of them."
"Not seventeen, Lady Henry?"
"Well, eighteen, then. And I saw you with him the other night at the opera." She laughed nervously9 as she spoke10, and watched him with her vague forget-me-not eyes. She was a curious woman, whose dresses always looked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in a tempest. She was usually in love with somebody, and, as her passion was never returned, she had kept all her illusions. She tried to look picturesque11, but only succeeded in being untidy. Her name was Victoria, and she had a perfect mania12 for going to church.
"That was at Lohengrin, Lady Henry, I think?"
"Yes; it was at dear Lohengrin. I like Wagner's music better than anybody's. It is so loud that one can talk the whole time without other people hearing what one says. That is a great advantage, don't you think so, Mr. Gray?"
The same nervous staccato laugh broke from her thin lips, and her fingers began to play with a long tortoise-shell paper-knife.
Dorian smiled and shook his head: "I am afraid I don't think so, Lady Henry. I never talk during music--at least, during good music. If one hears bad music, it is one's duty to drown it in conversation."
"Ah! that is one of Harry's views, isn't it, Mr. Gray? I always hear Harry's views from his friends. It is the only way I get to know of them. But you must not think I don't like good music. I adore it, but I am afraid of it. It makes me too romantic. I have simply worshipped pianists-- two at a time, sometimes, Harry tells me. I don't know what it is about them. Perhaps it is that they are foreigners. They all are, ain't they? Even those that are born in England become foreigners after a time, don't they? It is so clever of them, and such a compliment to art. Makes it quite cosmopolitan13, doesn't it? You have never been to any of my parties, have you, Mr. Gray? You must come. I can't afford orchids14, but I share no expense in foreigners. They make one's rooms look so picturesque. But here is Harry! Harry, I came in to look for you, to ask you something-- I forget what it was--and I found Mr. Gray here. We have had such a pleasant chat about music. We have quite the same ideas. No; I think our ideas are quite different. But he has been most pleasant. I am so glad I've seen him."
"I am charmed, my love, quite charmed," said Lord Henry, elevating his dark, crescent-shaped eyebrows15 and looking at them both with an amused smile. "So sorry I am late, Dorian. I went to look after a piece of old brocade in Wardour Street and had to bargain for hours for it. Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing."
"I am afraid I must be going," exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking an awkward silence with her silly sudden laugh. "I have promised to drive with the duchess. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Good-bye, Harry. You are dining out, I suppose? So am I. Perhaps I shall see you at Lady Thornbury's."
"I dare say, my dear," said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her as, looking like a bird of paradise that had been out all night in the rain, she flitted out of the room, leaving a faint odour of frangipanni. Then he lit a cigarette and flung himself down on the sofa.
"Never marry a woman with straw-coloured hair, Dorian," he said after a few puffs16.
"Why, Harry?"
"Because they are so sentimental17."
"But I like sentimental people."
"Never marry at all, Dorian. Men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious: both are disappointed."
"I don't think I am likely to marry, Harry. I am too much in love. That is one of your aphorisms18. I am putting it into practice, as I do everything that you say."
"Who are you in love with?" asked Lord Henry after a pause.
"With an actress," said Dorian Gray, blushing.
Lord Henry shrugged19 his shoulders. "That is a rather commonplace début."
"You would not say so if you saw her, Harry."
"Who is she?"
"Her name is Sibyl Vane."
"Never heard of her."
"No one has. People will some day, however. She is a genius."
"My dear boy, no woman is a genius. Women are a decorative20 sex. They never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. Women represent the triumph of matter over mind, just as men represent the triumph of mind over morals."
"Harry, how can you?"
"My dear Dorian, it is quite true. I am analysing women at present, so I ought to know. The subject is not so abstruse22 as I thought it was. I find that, ultimately, there are only two kinds of women, the plain and the coloured. The plain women are very useful. If you want to gain a reputation for respectability, you have merely to take them down to supper. The other women are very charming. They commit one mistake, however. They paint in order to try and look young. Our grandmothers painted in order to try and talk brilliantly. Rouge24 and esprit used to go together. That is all over now. As long as a woman can look ten years younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly25 satisfied. As for conversation, there are only five women in London worth talking to, and two of these can't be admitted into decent society. However, tell me about your genius. How long have you known her?"
"Ah! Harry, your views terrify me.
"Never mind that. How long have you known her?"
"About three weeks."
"And where did you come across her?"
"I will tell you, Harry, but you mustn't be unsympathetic about it. After all, it never would have happened if I had not met you. You filled me with a wild desire to know everything about life. For days after I met you, something seemed to throb26 in my veins27. As I lounged in the park, or strolled down Piccadilly, I used to look at every one who passed me and wonder, with a mad curiosity, what sort of lives they led. Some of them fascinated me. Others filled me with terror. There was an exquisite28 poison in the air. I had a passion for sensations. . . . Well, one evening about seven o'clock, I determined29 to go out in search of some adventure. I felt that this grey monstrous30 London of ours, with its myriads31 of people, its sordid32 sinners, and its splendid sins, as you once phrased it, must have something in store for me. I fancied a thousand things. The mere23 danger gave me a sense of delight. I remembered what you had said to me on that wonderful evening when we first dined together, about the search for beauty being the real secret of life. I don't know what I expected, but I went out and wandered eastward33, soon losing my way in a labyrinth34 of grimy streets and black grassless squares. About half-past eight I passed by an absurd little theatre, with great flaring35 gas-jets and gaudy36 play-bills. A hideous37 Jew, in the most amazing waistcoat I ever beheld38 in my life, was standing39 at the entrance, smoking a vile40 cigar. He had greasy41 ringlets, and an enormous diamond blazed in the centre of a soiled shirt.'Have a box, my Lord?' he said, when he saw me, and he took off his hat with an air of gorgeous servility. There was something about him, Harry, that amused me. He was such a monster. You will laugh at me, I know, but I really went in and paid a whole guinea for the stage-box. To the present day I can't make out why I did so; and yet if I hadn't-- my dear Harry, if I hadn't--I should have missed the greatest romance of my life. I see you are laughing. It is horrid42 of you!"
"I am not laughing, Dorian; at least I am not laughing at you. But you should not say the greatest romance of your life. You should say the first romance of your life. You will always be loved, and you will always be in love with love. A grande passion is the privilege of people who have nothing to do. That is the one use of the idle classes of a country. Don't be afraid. There are exquisite things in store for you. This is merely the beginning."
"Do you think my nature so shallow?" cried Dorian Gray angrily.
"No; I think your nature so deep."
"How do you mean?"
"My dear boy, the people who love only once in their lives are really the shallow people. What they call their loyalty43, and their fidelity44, I call either the lethargy of custom or their lack of imagination. Faithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency45 is to the life of the intellect--simply a confession46 of failure. Faithfulness! I must analyse it some day. The passion for property is in it. There are many things that we would throw away if we were not afraid that others might pick them up. But I don't want to interrupt you. Go on with your story."
"Well, I found myself seated in a horrid little private box, with a vulgar drop-scene staring me in the face. I looked out from behind the curtain and surveyed the house. It was a tawdry affair, all Cupids and cornucopias47, like a third-rate wedding-cake. The gallery and pit were fairly full, but the two rows of dingy48 stalls were quite empty, and there was hardly a person in what I suppose they called the dress-circle. Women went about with oranges and ginger-beer, and there was a terrible consumption of nuts going on."
"It must have been just like the palmy days of the British drama."
"Just like, I should fancy, and very depressing. I began to wonder what on earth I should do when I caught sight of the play-bill. What do you think the play was, Harry?"
"I should think The Idiot Boy, or Dumb but Innocent. Our fathers used to like that sort of piece, I believe. The longer I live, Dorian, the more keenly I feel that whatever was good enough for our fathers is not good enough for us. In art, as in politics, les grandpères ont toujours tort."
"This play was good enough for us, Harry. It was Romeo and Juliet. I must admit that I was rather annoyed at the idea of seeing Shakespeare done in such a wretched hole of a place. Still, I felt interested, in a sort of way. At any rate, I determined to wait for the first act. There was a dreadful orchestra, presided over by a young Hebrew who sat at a cracked piano, that nearly drove me away, but at last the drop-scene was drawn49 up and the play began. Romeo was a stout50 elderly gentleman, with corked51 eyebrows, a husky tragedy voice, and a figure like a beer-barrel. Mercutio was almost as bad. He was played by the low-comedian, who had introduced gags of his own and was on most friendly terms with the pit. They were both as grotesque52 as the scenery, and that looked as if it had come out of a country-booth. But Juliet! Harry, imagine a girl, hardly seventeen years of age, with a little, flowerlike face, a small Greek head with plaited coils of dark-brown hair, eyes that were violet wells of passion, lips that were like the petals53 of a rose. She was the loveliest thing I had ever seen in my life. You said to me once that pathos54 left you unmoved, but that beauty, mere beauty, could fill your eyes with tears. I tell you, Harry, I could hardly see this girl for the mist of tears that came across me. And her voice--I never heard such a voice. It was very low at first, with deep mellow55 notes that seemed to fall singly upon one's ear. Then it became a little louder, and sounded like a flute56 or a distant hautboy. In the garden-scene it had all the tremulous ecstasy57 that one hears just before dawn when nightingales are singing. There were moments, later on, when it had the wild passion of violins. You know how a voice can stir one. Your voice and the voice of Sibyl Vane are two things that I shall never forget. When I close my eyes, I hear them, and each of them says something different. I don't know which to follow. Why should I not love her? Harry, I do love her. She is everything to me in life. Night after night I go to see her play. One evening she is Rosalind, and the next evening she is Imogen. I have seen her die in the gloom of an Italian tomb, sucking the poison from her lover's lips. I have watched her wandering through the forest of Arden, disguised as a pretty boy in hose and doublet and dainty cap. She has been mad, and has come into the presence of a guilty king, and given him rue21 to wear and bitter herbs to taste of. She has been innocent, and the black hands of jealousy58 have crushed her reedlike throat. I have seen her in every age and in every costume. Ordinary women never appeal to one's imagination. They are limited to their century. No glamour59 ever transfigures them. One knows their minds as easily as one knows their bonnets60. One can always find them. There is no mystery in any of them. They ride in the park in the morning and chatter61 at tea-parties in the afternoon. They have their stereotyped62 smile and their fashionable manner. They are quite obvious. But an actress! How different an actress is! Harry! why didn't you tell me that the only thing worth loving is an actress?"
"Because I have loved so many of them, Dorian."
"Oh, yes, horrid people with dyed hair and painted faces."
"Don't run down dyed hair and painted faces. There is an extraordinary charm in them, sometimes," said Lord Henry.
"I wish now I had not told you about Sibyl Vane."
"You could not have helped telling me, Dorian. All through your life you will tell me everything you do."
"Yes, Harry, I believe that is true. I cannot help telling you things. You have a curious influence over me. If I ever did a crime, I would come and confess it to you. You would understand me."
"People like you--the wilful63 sunbeams of life--don't commit crimes, Dorian. But I am much obliged for the compliment, all the same. And now tell me-- reach me the matches, like a good boy--thanks--what are your actual relations with Sibyl Vane?"
Dorian Gray leaped to his feet, with flushed cheeks and burning eyes. "Harry! Sibyl Vane is sacred!"
"It is only the sacred things that are worth touching64, Dorian," said Lord Henry, with a strange touch of pathos in his voice. "But why should you be annoyed? I suppose she will belong to you some day. When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one's self, and one always ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance. You know her, at any rate, I suppose?"
"Of course I know her. On the first night I was at the theatre, the horrid old Jew came round to the box after the performance was over and offered to take me behind the scenes and introduce me to her. I was furious with him, and told him that Juliet had been dead for hundreds of years and that her body was lying in a marble tomb in Verona. I think, from his blank look of amazement65, that he was under the impression that I had taken too much champagne66, or something."
"I am not surprised."
"Then he asked me if I wrote for any of the newspapers. I told him I never even read them. He seemed terribly disappointed at that, and confided67 to me that all the dramatic critics were in a conspiracy68 against him, and that they were every one of them to be bought."
"I should not wonder if he was quite right there. But, on the other hand, judging from their appearance, most of them cannot be at all expensive."
"Well, he seemed to think they were beyond his means," laughed Dorian. "By this time, however, the lights were being put out in the theatre, and I had to go. He wanted me to try some cigars that he strongly recommended. I declined. The next night, of course, I arrived at the place again. When he saw me, he made me a low bow and assured me that I was a munificent69 patron of art. He was a most offensive brute70, though he had an extraordinary passion for Shakespeare. He told me once, with an air of pride, that his five bankruptcies71 were entirely72 due to 'The Bard,' as he insisted on calling him. He seemed to think it a distinction."
"It was a distinction, my dear Dorian--a great distinction. Most people become bankrupt through having invested too heavily in the prose of life. To have ruined one's self over poetry is an honour. But when did you first speak to Miss Sibyl Vane?"
"The third night. She had been playing Rosalind. I could not help going round. I had thrown her some flowers, and she had looked at me--at least I fancied that she had. The old Jew was persistent73. He seemed determined to take me behind, so I consented. It was curious my not wanting to know her, wasn't it?"
"No; I don't think so."
"My dear Harry, why?"
"I will tell you some other time. Now I want to know about the girl."
"Sibyl? Oh, she was so shy and so gentle. There is something of a child about her. Her eyes opened wide in exquisite wonder when I told her what I thought of her performance, and she seemed quite unconscious of her power. I think we were both rather nervous. The old Jew stood grinning at the doorway74 of the dusty greenroom, making elaborate speeches about us both, while we stood looking at each other like children. He would insist on calling me 'My Lord,' so I had to assure Sibyl that I was not anything of the kind. She said quite simply to me, 'You look more like a prince. I must call you Prince Charming.'"
"Upon my word, Dorian, Miss Sibyl knows how to pay compliments."
"You don't understand her, Harry. She regarded me merely as a person in a play. She knows nothing of life. She lives with her mother, a faded tired woman who played Lady Capulet in a sort of magenta75 dressing-wrapper on the first night, and looks as if she had seen better days."
"I know that look. It depresses me," murmured Lord Henry, examining his rings.
"The Jew wanted to tell me her history, but I said it did not interest me."
"You were quite right. There is always something infinitely76 mean about other people's tragedies."
"Sibyl is the only thing I care about. What is it to me where she came from? From her little head to her little feet, she is absolutely and entirely divine. Every night of my life I go to see her act, and every night she is more marvellous."
"That is the reason, I suppose, that you never dine with me now. I thought you must have some curious romance on hand. You have; but it is not quite what I expected."
"My dear Harry, we either lunch or sup together every day, and I have been to the opera with you several times," said Dorian, opening his blue eyes in wonder.
"You always come dreadfully late."
"Well, I can't help going to see Sibyl play," he cried, "even if it is only for a single act. I get hungry for her presence; and when I think of the wonderful soul that is hidden away in that little ivory body, I am filled with awe77."
"You can dine with me to-night, Dorian, can't you?"
He shook his head. "To-night she is Imogen," he answered, "and to-morrow night she will be Juliet."
"When is she Sibyl Vane?"
"Never."
"I congratulate you."
"How horrid you are! She is all the great heroines of the world in one. She is more than an individual. You laugh, but I tell you she has genius. I love her, and I must make her love me. You, who know all the secrets of life, tell me how to charm Sibyl Vane to love me! I want to make Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the world to hear our laughter and grow sad. I want a breath of our passion to stir their dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain. My God, Harry, how I worship her!" He was walking up and down the room as he spoke. Hectic78 spots of red burned on his cheeks. He was terribly excited.
Lord Henry watched him with a subtle sense of pleasure. How different he was now from the shy frightened boy he had met in Basil Hallward's studio! His nature had developed like a flower, had borne blossoms of scarlet79 flame. Out of its secret hiding-place had crept his soul, and desire had come to meet it on the way.
"And what do you propose to do?" said Lord Henry at last.
"I want you and Basil to come with me some night and see her act. I have not the slightest fear of the result. You are certain to acknowledge her genius. Then we must get her out of the Jew's hands. She is bound to him for three years--at least for two years and eight months-- from the present time. I shall have to pay him something, of course. When all that is settled, I shall take a West End theatre and bring her out properly. She will make the world as mad as she has made me."
"That would be impossible, my dear boy."
"Yes, she will. She has not merely art, consummate80 art-instinct, in her, but she has personality also; and you have often told me that it is personalities81, not principles, that move the age."
"Well, what night shall we go?"
"Let me see. To-day is Tuesday. Let us fix to-morrow. She plays Juliet to-morrow."
"All right. The Bristol at eight o'clock; and I will get Basil."
"Not eight, Harry, please. Half-past six. We must be there before the curtain rises. You must see her in the first act, where she meets Romeo."
"Half-past six! What an hour! It will be like having a meat-tea, or reading an English novel. It must be seven. No gentleman dines before seven. Shall you see Basil between this and then? Or shall I write to him?"
"Dear Basil! I have not laid eyes on him for a week. It is rather horrid of me, as he has sent me my portrait in the most wonderful frame, specially82 designed by himself, and, though I am a little jealous of the picture for being a whole month younger than I am, I must admit that I delight in it. Perhaps you had better write to him. I don't want to see him alone. He says things that annoy me. He gives me good advice."
Lord Henry smiled. "People are very fond of giving away what they need most themselves. It is what I call the depth of generosity83."
"Oh, Basil is the best of fellows, but he seems to me to be just a bit of a Philistine84. Since I have known you, Harry, I have discovered that."
"Basil, my dear boy, puts everything that is charming in him into his work. The consequence is that he has nothing left for life but his prejudices, his principles, and his common sense. The only artists I have ever known who are personally delightful85 are bad artists. Good artists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets86 makes a man quite irresistible87. He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize."
"I wonder is that really so, Harry?" said Dorian Gray, putting some perfume on his handkerchief out of a large, gold-topped bottle that stood on the table. "It must be, if you say it. And now I am off. Imogen is waiting for me. Don't forget about to-morrow. Good-bye."
As he left the room, Lord Henry's heavy eyelids88 drooped89, and he began to think. Certainly few people had ever interested him so much as Dorian Gray, and yet the lad's mad adoration90 of some one else caused him not the slightest pang91 of annoyance92 or jealousy. He was pleased by it. It made him a more interesting study. He had been always enthralled93 by the methods of natural science, but the ordinary subject-matter of that science had seemed to him trivial and of no import. And so he had begun by vivisecting himself, as he had ended by vivisecting others. Human life--that appeared to him the one thing worth investigating. Compared to it there was nothing else of any value. It was true that as one watched life in its curious crucible94 of pain and pleasure, one could not wear over one's face a mask of glass, nor keep the sulphurous fumes95 from troubling the brain and making the imagination turbid96 with monstrous fancies and misshapen dreams. There were poisons so subtle that to know their properties one had to sicken of them. There were maladies so strange that one had to pass through them if one sought to understand their nature. And, yet, what a great reward one received! How wonderful the whole world became to one! To note the curious hard logic97 of passion, and the emotional coloured life of the intellect--to observe where they met, and where they separated, at what point they were in unison98, and at what point they were at discord--there was a delight in that! What matter what the cost was? One could never pay too high a price for any sensation.
He was conscious--and the thought brought a gleam of pleasure into his brown agate99 eyes--that it was through certain words of his, musical words said with musical utterance100, that Dorian Gray's soul had turned to this white girl and bowed in worship before her. To a large extent the lad was his own creation. He had made him premature101. That was something. Ordinary people waited till life disclosed to them its secrets, but to the few, to the elect, the mysteries of life were revealed before the veil was drawn away. Sometimes this was the effect of art, and chiefly of the art of literature, which dealt immediately with the passions and the intellect. But now and then a complex personality took the place and assumed the office of art, was indeed, in its way, a real work of art, life having its elaborate masterpieces, just as poetry has, or sculpture, or painting.
Yes, the lad was premature. He was gathering102 his harvest while it was yet spring. The pulse and passion of youth were in him, but he was becoming self-conscious. It was delightful to watch him. With his beautiful face, and his beautiful soul, he was a thing to wonder at. It was no matter how it all ended, or was destined103 to end. He was like one of those gracious figures in a pageant104 or a play, whose joys seem to be remote from one, but whose sorrows stir one's sense of beauty, and whose wounds are like red roses.
Soul and body, body and soul--how mysterious they were! There was animalism in the soul, and the body had its moments of spirituality. The senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade. Who could say where the fleshly impulse ceased, or the psychical105 impulse began? How shallow were the arbitrary definitions of ordinary psychologists! And yet how difficult to decide between the claims of the various schools! Was the soul a shadow seated in the house of sin? Or was the body really in the soul, as Giordano Bruno thought? The separation of spirit from matter was a mystery, and the union of spirit with matter was a mystery also.
He began to wonder whether we could ever make psychology106 so absolute a science that each little spring of life would be revealed to us. As it was, we always misunderstood ourselves and rarely understood others. Experience was of no ethical107 value. It was merely the name men gave to their mistakes. Moralists had, as a rule, regarded it as a mode of warning, had claimed for it a certain ethical efficacy in the formation of character, had praised it as something that taught us what to follow and showed us what to avoid. But there was no motive108 power in experience. It was as little of an active cause as conscience itself. All that it really demonstrated was that our future would be the same as our past, and that the sin we had done once, and with loathing109, we would do many times, and with joy.
It was clear to him that the experimental method was the only method by which one could arrive at any scientific analysis of the passions; and certainly Dorian Gray was a subject made to his hand, and seemed to promise rich and fruitful results. His sudden mad love for Sibyl Vane was a psychological phenomenon of no small interest. There was no doubt that curiosity had much to do with it, curiosity and the desire for new experiences, yet it was not a simple, but rather a very complex passion. What there was in it of the purely110 sensuous111 instinct of boyhood had been transformed by the workings of the imagination, changed into something that seemed to the lad himself to be remote from sense, and was for that very reason all the more dangerous. It was the passions about whose origin we deceived ourselves that tyrannized most strongly over us. Our weakest motives112 were those of whose nature we were conscious. It often happened that when we thought we were experimenting on others we were really experimenting on ourselves.
While Lord Henry sat dreaming on these things, a knock came to the door, and his valet entered and reminded him it was time to dress for dinner. He got up and looked out into the street. The sunset had smitten113 into scarlet gold the upper windows of the houses opposite. The panes glowed like plates of heated metal. The sky above was like a faded rose. He thought of his friend's young fiery-coloured life and wondered how it was all going to end.
When he arrived home, about half-past twelve o'clock, he saw a telegram lying on the hall table. He opened it and found it was from Dorian Gray. It was to tell him that he was engaged to be married to Sibyl Vane.
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frieze
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gilt
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illustrated
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monotonous
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harry
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shrill
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spoke
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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13
cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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orchids
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| n.兰花( orchid的名词复数 ) | |
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15
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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16
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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17
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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18
aphorisms
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| 格言，警句( aphorism的名词复数 ) | |
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19
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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20
decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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21
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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22
abstruse
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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23
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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24
rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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25
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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26
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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27
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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28
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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29
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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30
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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31
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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32
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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33
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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34
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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35
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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36
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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37
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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38
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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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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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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41
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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42
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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43
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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44
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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45
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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46
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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47
cornucopias
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| n.丰饶角（象征丰饶的羊角，角内呈现满溢的鲜花、水果等）( cornucopia的名词复数 ) | |
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48
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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49
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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51
corked
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| adj.带木塞气味的，塞着瓶塞的v.用瓶塞塞住( cork的过去式 ) | |
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52
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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53
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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54
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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55
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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56
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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57
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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58
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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59
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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60
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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61
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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62
stereotyped
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| adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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63
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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64
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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65
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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66
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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67
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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68
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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69
munificent
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| adj.慷慨的，大方的 | |
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70
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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71
bankruptcies
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| n.破产( bankruptcy的名词复数 )；倒闭；彻底失败；（名誉等的）完全丧失 | |
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72
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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73
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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74
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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75
magenta
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| n..紫红色（的染料）；adj.紫红色的 | |
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76
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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77
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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78
hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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79
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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80
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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81
personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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82
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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83
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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84
philistine
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| n.庸俗的人；adj.市侩的，庸俗的 | |
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85
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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86
sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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87
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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88
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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89
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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91
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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92
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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93
enthralled
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| 迷住，吸引住( enthrall的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到非常愉快 | |
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94
crucible
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| n.坩锅，严酷的考验 | |
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95
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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96
turbid
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| adj.混浊的，泥水的，浓的 | |
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97
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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98
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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99
agate
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| n.玛瑙 | |
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100
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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101
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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102
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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103
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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104
pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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105
psychical
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| adj.有关特异功能现象的；有关特异功能官能的；灵魂的；心灵的 | |
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106
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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107
ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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108
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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109
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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110
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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111
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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112
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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113
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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