To-night she smiled at the unmistakable excitement of titivating once more for a mere5 man, although he made no appeal whatever to her deeper feminine instincts. Those had long been dead, and she stared down for a moment at their graves, almost forgotten under the heavy mounds6 of loathing7 and hatred8 for the sex for which they had been implanted. She no longer hated men; she had not even the desire, common to the woman that has been deeply wronged, to wreak9 vengeance10 upon them as a sex, now that all the cards were in her hands; art had enchained every faculty11 and left little room in her mind for the meaner interests of life. But she was a woman still, or she would not have been the great artist she was; and she sighed a little as she clasped her girdle, and even experienced a fleeting12 envy of Hélène Wass, who was two years older than herself. She was very happy, she dwelt upon serene13 heights, and one day Wagner would conquer London and she would sing there and behold14 the world at her feet. But Life, Life itself, had cheated her horribly; she must die when her time came without one tender or beautiful memory. It had gorged15 her with its knowledge, but its lessons had been hideous16; and only her strong will—perhaps the greatest of her gifts—banished their memory when they rose and flitted, phosphorescent ghosts, across her upper consciousness. She swept them aside to-night and went downstairs, grateful that with the power to love had gone the power to suffer; for she would go out that instant from the world and its music rather than descend17 into those buried depths of her nature again.
Although it was ten minutes past seven her guest had not arrived, and she went into the drawing-room to wait for him. She felt some vanity in displaying her salon18 to one who she knew instinctively19 possessed20 a cultivated and exacting21 taste. It was a large room on the right of the entrance, with a row of alcoves23 on the garden side, each furnished to represent one of the purple flowers. The woodwork was ivory-white; the silk panels of the same shade were painted with violets or lilacs, pansies, asters, orchids24, or lilies, as if reflecting the alcoves. There was but one picture, a full-length portrait of Styr as Brynhildr, by Lenbach. The spindle-legged furniture was covered with pale brocades and not aggressively of any period. It was distinctly a “Styr Room,” as her admirers, who were admitted on the first Sunday of the month, had long since agreed, while sealing it with their approval.
At half-past seven Ordham was shown in, exclaiming: “I am so sorry! But my driver went to sleep. I am positive of it. I spent the entire time between Barerstrasse and Schwabing crying ‘Schnell!’?”
“They are always at least half asleep at this hour. They have reached almost the limit of their day’s allowance of beer. For that matter, I often see them asleep in the park three hours earlier, huddled25 down into their meridians26 and trusting to their patient old nags27 to keep the road. One drove up a tree in front of my window not long since. Shall we go in to supper?”
The dining-room was across the hall, a stately little room fitted up in brown and dull gold. The small table, with its delicate service of porcelain28 and crystal, was perfectly29 appointed, and the simple supper of omelette aux fines herbes, pigeons, salad, and American hot breads, was so refreshing30 to Ordham, after the heavy English cooking of the Legation, and the heavier of such of the Bavarian aristocracy as did not employ chefs, that it diverted and comforted him. But he had looked pale and harassed31 when he entered, and Styr bore her purpose in mind.
They talked, as Hélène had anticipated, of Wagner, and Margarethe succeeded in interesting him deeply when she spoke32 of her early doubts and fears, not of the difficulties of the music, but of the strange women she must portray33.
“I had never heard the r?les sung, you know,” she was saying, as they entered the gallery by the river and she motioned him into the deepest of the chairs. “Please sit still. I am given to prowling. And smoke. Those are Russian cigarettes, and very good, but smoke your own, if you prefer. I had read those operas over and over,—Heavens, but how often!—imagining myself the heroine of each in turn; but when my voice was ready for interpretation34, I realized that thought—brain—as well as imagination, was a prerequisite35. Of course I had not long been in Bayreuth before I heard how others interpreted them, but that conveyed little to me. As soon as I had begun really to analyze36 and ponder upon the characters of Brünhilde and Isolde, I chose to call them from their graves into my own soul, divested37 of all the conventions which already clung to them like barnacles. My ardour was so great that when roaming alone in the woods of Eremetage, the old park of the Margraves on the hill outside of the town, I really persuaded myself—and for hours at a time—that I was one or other of those great women, torn with her passions, delirious38 with her hopes, exalted39 with her despair. My God! my God! What happiness! I lived the life of the imagination, the artistic40 imagination on fire; I gave not a thought to my personal self. Nor was there time for anything but study. Frau Cosima, regarding me as an irresponsible genius, found me a lodging41 with a good creature who kept me from starving—and the clothes on my back. Perhaps even The Master laughed at my intoxication,—for it was far beyond enthusiasm,—but I neither knew nor cared. I was quite mad. Of course such a time can never come again, for I have learned all the great r?les, and who shall write others? But at least I am happy while singing them, and throughout the day preceding the night of a performance I live the part to myself. I see the Rhine beneath my window, my tower is the Hall of the Gibichungs. I hear the Atlantic in the Isar and fling myself face downward on that divan42 and let the passions of all womankind tear my heart as they tore Isolde’s when they transformed her into a fate and the avenger43 of her sex.”
Ordham had forgotten Hélène Wass. He would rather have made no reply, but when she paused, he took refuge, after his habit when excited, in commonplace:
“That is perhaps your greatest acting22—that first act of Tristan. But of course there is no other in which you run the gamut44 of the passions—although in G?tterd?mmerung—but really I am not up to criticism. You are terribly real in all of your tragic45 r?les. I wonder how real it all is—if you are capable of sweeping46 a man out into eternity47 with you to-day? You must have been once.”
“I am capable of nothing but acting to-day; and of getting quite wrought48 up in the novelty of talking to some one besides myself in this room. I receive those I receive at all in the salon, but in this I live. Let me show it to you.”
He followed her about the long room that reminded him of galleries in certain old houses in England. It must have been very bright during the day, for the side facing the river was made almost entirely49 of windows. The other three walls were set thick with pictures, many of them sketches50 laid at the feet of Die Styr by the devotees of another art; a few old prints and etchings, and an infinite number of photographs. Ordham wondered how a woman who made so few friends had managed to collect so many signed presentments, until he examined the signatures and found that they were all from celebrities51 or members of the royal families of Bavaria and other German states. Ludwig had sent her no less than twelve, ranging from the supreme52 if morbid53 beauty of his young manhood to the pallid54 corpulence of the present, in which nothing lived to remind the world of one of the most promising55 monarchs56 that ever had ascended57 a throne but the deathless ideality of the eyes. Other members of the royal and ducal Wittelsbachs, kindly58 and genuine people, who came sometimes to drink a cup of tea with the great artist (whom they admired with that true reverence59 for art that the centuries had bred in them) had sent their photographs handsomely framed and affectionately autographed. Ennobled though she was, the fact that she was of those that received payment for services rendered debarred her from court functions at the Residenz, but that was all. She had dined with the Queen-mother more than once, and was invited to the routs60 at the other palaces in common with the rest of the Bavarian aristocracy. Although that strong brain could never turn, it must have admitted an occasional wave of astonishment61, perhaps exultation62, at the significance of this eccentric curve in her fortunes.
Some such thought flitted through Ordham’s mind, but he made no comment, and admired the graceful63 crowded room in general. It looked as if the disposition64 of the tables and chairs were changed daily, and although the walls were of a delicate grey, there was colour somewhere, in what he could not define, so perfect was the harmony, that gave the room warmth and brightness. At one end a marble bust65 of Wagner stood alone on a pedestal. The books were in the tower, opposite whose arch was the divan with its many pillows.
“You should be very happy in such a room,” he said with a sigh, as he returned to the deep comfort of his chair. “I can well imagine that here you can conjure66 up any vision you wish. I have been here but half an hour, and already it seems more like home to me than any room in Munich. I cannot fancy anything disagreeable happening in it.”
“But there are so many beautiful rooms in Munich.” She took a chair facing him, lit a cigarette, and prepared to draw him out.
“Beautiful, but not gemütlich—wonderful word! Either they are magnificent, like Princess Nachmeister’s, or merely formal, with fine things in them, or quite awful, with stuffy67 ancestral furniture that should have been refilled seven generations ago. My room at the Legation is done up in chintz and is very pretty and fresh, but it is not—well, it does not shut out the world as this room does.”
“But your place is in the world. And it is very good to you.”
“Oh, sometimes.”
There being no fire to stare into, his gaze had wandered to the open window near his chair. Suddenly he realized that the dark object beyond was a bit of the Englischergarten, and the scene of the afternoon flashed back to his mind. The vague sense of dissatisfaction that had stolen over him at the last words of Countess Tann crystallized, and he turned pale and drew in his breath sharply.
“Has Fraülein Lutz been scolding you? She gave me many unhappy quart d’heures.”
“I can only be grateful to her—and to you.”
“That was a sort of gambler’s throw on my part—I am curious to see how far you will go in the diplomatic career. Very far, I venture to predict.”
“Oh!” He twisted about again and looked hard at the dark panel of the window. His languid ambition gathered a sudden vehemence69 as he seemed to behold a forking road in his future and a sinister70 pointing finger.
“What is the age limit for examinations?”
“Twenty-six.”
“That gives you two years. With Fraülein Lutz you cannot fail to pass in German. But I find those examinations rather stupid. It gives too many opportunities to the wrong class of young men, while those more naturally gifted for such a career are thinking only of amusing themselves. And after all, an under secretary can acquire one language after another in the capitals where he is attached long before he has any but a purely71 personal need of them. By the time he is a first secretary he will know at least four languages, no matter how limited his linguistic72 talents.”
“How wonderful of you to have thought about a career so far removed from your own.”
“Is it? In your case, however, I have had the benefit more than once of Princess Nachmeister’s disquisitions. She has made up her mind to live to see you an ambassador; and she is quite capable of living till ninety.”
“I could hardly be an ambassador at forty-four, unless I had had uncommon73 opportunities.” But his eyes kindled74 and he smiled. He was easily diverted, and even though his ambition might not grow fast enough to conquer his indolence and love of pleasure before it was too late, his natural sense of dignity, and a pride both personal and racial, reminded him, now and again, that it was his duty to take the place among men to which his talents and his opportunities entitled him.
“Well—you might come back as Minister Resident to Bavaria, and cheer your good old friend’s last days.”
“Oh!” He had turned pale again. “I may never embark75 upon the diplomatic career, Countess. It—I—it is too expensive, I am afraid. It is only in the last year that I have learned the disagreeable lesson that money is not to be had for the wishing. When I chose the diplomatic career,—not, I fear, with any idea of serving my country, but as the most congenial I could think of,—I had a vague idea that money in unlimited76 quantities was my birthright, that it would flow in, every quarter, with the changing seasons. Intellectually, I accept the fact that I am a younger son and likely to remain one for another quarter of a century; but personally, this knowledge seems to make no impression on me whatever. I keep on spending more than my income, even here in Munich where I am a guest. How can I expect properly to maintain the position of a regular member of the staff with increasing social obligations? There is no pay at all for two years; for many it is insignificant77. I scorn to be a mere hanger-on, professional diner-out. It is my disposition to entertain, to give as good as I get.”
“Young men, particularly young officials, are in such demand—that need hardly worry you. And then you can marry. High Heaven has preordained that young Englishmen of great expectations and immediate78 debts shall capture ambitious fortunes. Your family influence must be immense. Cause yourself to be appointed to your legation in Washington—that Mecca of the worthy79 and impecunious80 young attaché. You will have married a rich, pretty, and charming girl before your first year is out. I am beginning to feel that I have the seeds of the match-maker in the débris of my feminine soul. I fancy that half the American wives in Europe were caught in their own diplomatic pond.”
“I may never marry. I have little inclination81 for matrimony.” But he spoke sadly, for the alluring82 vision of Mabel Cutting and her millions had risen with the advice of the Styr. “Besides—well—”
Countess Tann rose and closed the window, drawing the curtains. The room looked even more friendly, more shut in from the world, than before. He had risen to assist her, and as she resumed her seat, he stood looking down at her. He had never liked any one so much, never felt so oddly at home, since the death of his father. Her atmosphere of mystery had vanished in this room where she lived her intimate woman’s life. She was not seductive nor too fascinating, but friendly, intelligent, gemütlich. A wave of boyish despair swept over him. He would have liked to put his head in her lap and pour out his troubles and receive her comfort and advice. Although he looked as impassive as the Sphinx, she knew that the time had come to speak.
“You are in trouble,” she said softly. “I knew it the moment you came in, and it has been rising to the surface at intervals83 ever since. I can only divert you for a few moments at a time. You are not in the least what you were at Neuschwanstein, and you have a great reputation in Munich for high spirits. New friends often make the best confidants. Something tells me that I can help you. Do let me if I can. I have given you more of my confidence than I have ever given to any one. It is your turn. And there is a bond—you must feel it as well as I. Indeed—I am almost superstitious84 about it, so—let me help you.”
He sat down under this assault, but instead of sinking into the deepest embrace of the easy chair, after his habit whenever he captured that triumph of modern furnishing, he leaned forward, staring at her as if magnetized, and feeling something of the gratitude85 he so often politely expressed.
“You are very good! Why do you take so much interest—you, of all women? You do not dwell on the same plane with poor tormented86 human beings.”
“But I did once! Bear that in mind, and tell me what troubles you.”
“I am afraid I cannot.”
“You mean that it involves a woman and that I will put two and two together and discover who she is?”
“Something like that.”
“You forget that I am not of your world. I enter it on rare occasions, as a sort of lay figure. None of its gossip comes to me. I have a few acquaintances, but they know better than to regale87 me with the scandal of the town. To me Munich is a mere audience.”
“Princess Nachmeister seems to have talked to you a good deal about me.”
“But only because of her genuine interest. She has never gossiped about you.”
“I don’t think there has been any gossip—no, I suppose you never could guess. I have been foolish and I am afraid I shall have to pay heavily.”
“Don’t believe all that unscrupulous girls—”
“Oh! oh! It is not as bad as that. Perhaps, though, it is worse, if only because more intangible. It is a sort of pressure—an accumulation—a woman fancies herself in love with me—of course she isn’t, but—well—she thinks that she is willing to sacrifice everything. She has great strength of feeling, and I am haunted by the fear that she will carry me away on that current whether I will or not. I do not love her in the least, but there are obligations—”
“Were you very much in love with her? You do not look as if you had passed through the throes of the grande passion.”
“I was fascinated.”
“But she did the love-making? If it is what I imagine—a casual episode with some light-headed blasée society woman who is fascinated with your youth—I fail to see that you have incurred88 a permanent obligation.”
He gave her a sharp look, but forgot that he was in the hands of a woman whom many rated as the greatest actress of her time. Her expression was speculative89, disapproving90; there was no canny91 gleam in her eyes, no undue92 eagerness in her manner. It was patent that she was theorizing out of her wide knowledge of the world and human nature.
“She is not old—at least in looks,—and I don’t think she is blasée,” he replied, driven to defend his taste. “She is extraordinarily93 full of life, of interest in everything; but she is high-strung and takes things too tragically94. It is my misfortune that she fancies just now that I have inspired the serious passion of her life. No doubt she will soon get over it. But meanwhile!”
“Why don’t you flee to England?”
“I won’t run. Besides, she would follow. And—well, there is an obligation. I could have stopped it in the beginning—as I did later, when I had only the excuse of being bored. But I did not. That I did not take the matter seriously at any time does not alter the fact that she did—does. And that seems to give her a hold I cannot shake off.”
“Ah! She appeals to your chivalry95, your sympathy, pity! She is a clever woman at all events. She has played upon—Oh, I have no patience with such women. They ruin more lives than the labelled women of the streets, for they make the insidious96 approach. She wants to marry you, of course.”
“I fancy she has some such idea, but her husband lives.”
“Then she wants to run away with you first.”
Ordham stood up again. The more or less vague apprehensions97 that had haunted him for several hours took form and substance.
“Yes,” he said; “I am afraid that is it.”
“Good God!” Styr stood up, her face expressing a horror that lashed68 his own brain. “That means ruin, no career—being a social outcast—for several valuable years, at all events. No opportunity to marry a decent girl of fortune. Nothing! And you—all the delightful98 freshness of your young good looks faded, your enjoyment99 of life dulled, embittered,—your splendid pride broken. Oh, you cannot, you do not contemplate100 such a step!”
“No, I don’t,” he said intensely, although he did not raise his voice to the tragic pitch of hers. “But she does. That is the whole point. Her husband may accuse her at any moment. I think that is what she wants. Then she will confess. He will cast her out. I must go with her. Whatever she may be, there will be no altering the fact that she will have courted ruin for my sake, and I cannot desert her. I have been a fool. I must pay the price. How could I act otherwise?”
He looked so obstinate101 that Margarethe could have shaken him, but she was aghast. It was far worse than she had supposed. She was the more determined102 to save him—but how? She longed to be alone, to set her wits to work.
“Suppose you were to be convinced that she had had many other lovers—which, no doubt, is the case?”
“What difference would that make?”
“Well, none, I suppose, with a psychological young modern like yourself! But you are too good to throw away. This must not happen. Cannot you keep her quiet by renewed devotion and let her down by degrees?”
“I am afraid I haven’t the self-command. I almost hate her—except when she appeals to my sympathies, and then I almost love her.”
“If you were ten years older you would manage it all so well! But, to be sure, if you were ten years older you would not be in this predicament, for more reasons than one. I suppose that you have never in your life done anything you did not want to do, nor failed to gratify every desire?”
“When possible,” he said ingenuously103. “But I have to do many things I don’t like.”
“I fancy you would have some difficulty in enumerating104 them. You radiate an atmosphere of self-indulgence, and the caresses105 of fortune. But this! I must, I will save you! I have learned in a hard school to succeed in whatever I undertake, and I shall not fail here—”
“You will not try to find out who she is?” He did not speak excitedly, but in a very low and quiet tone.
“I do not care in the least who she is. And how could I find out? No—but you are too good—It seemed to me when I sent Lutz to you that I pledged myself to your future.”
She came up to him swiftly and took both his hands. He stared at her, fascinated, for she looked stronger than any one he had ever seen. Involuntarily he leaned forward a little, as if to rest on that great strength; and that moment witnessed the forging of the real bond between them. “Give me your word,” she said, “that you will take no step until I have had time to think.”
“Of course.” And then he felt that his usual ready formula was unworthy of this woman. “I don’t know,” he faltered106; “events might be too strong.”
“Oh, I know the pressure of events! But you are not fifteen, and you are very clever. You can temporize107 for a week or two. Give her a chance to cool down and think better of it.”
“I have put her off so often. She no longer believes one of my excuses.” He spoke with some humour.
“Oh, pretend that you love her, but beg her to wait till you have passed your examinations.”
“What does she care for my examinations? And if she means to marry me, she knows well enough that I cannot enter diplomacy108 blackened by a scandal.”
“Well, find some other excuse—tell her that you are on the verge109 of cajoling a larger income out of your brother—and meanwhile you really must pretend that you love her more than ever—”
“I cannot!” There was such tragic disgust in his tones that Margarethe had never liked him half as well.
“I am afraid that you really hate her.”
“I wish she were dead and buried!”
“And yet you are thinking of spending your ruined life with her! Oh, the folly110 of youth! But one might as well talk to the winds. What would become of the world if women had such extravagant111 notions of honour?”
Ordham, being a man, laughed at this. But he replied, “I should think that you—of all women—had a very keen sense of honour.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t strain the point. And I have lived long enough to leaven112 ideals with common sense. Well—at least promise me this—that for one week—seven whole days, mind you—you will not take a step that would ruin your life. It is not so much to ask.”
“Yes—I think I can promise you that. I have a sore throat and no doubt can develop a case of bronchitis and go to bed for a few days. Strangers always get bronchitis during their first year in Munich.”
“Good!”
“But I don’t see what you can do.”
“Nor I; but I shall disown myself for the rest of my life if I don’t think of something. Only I must have time.”
He dropped her hands and moved away uneasily. She might be honourable113 according to her standards, but he remembered that she could look like a fate—and was supreme in the first act of Tristan! He doubted if, given an impulse strong enough to rouse her, she would stick at anything. But, he reflected, she was not in love with him. The vainest of men could admit no delusion114 on that point; Ordham had no more than his share of vanity, and had been given opportunities to decipher the danger signals he dreaded115. Therefore would she do nothing rash; and he had some curiosity, although little hope, as to what she might suggest when he emerged from the refuge of his chamber116.
“You are too kind,” he said. “Of course I shall be only too ready to listen if you can show me a way out. May I come again soon? Ah! if I were swept away on that current, I suppose I never should see this room again.”
“I do not fancy you would care to show yourself again in Munich for several years, at least. Come meanwhile as often as you can—except on the night before I sing, or on the day of a performance. I practise my vocal117 gymnastics before you are awake in the morning!”
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slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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attire
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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mere
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mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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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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hatred
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wreak
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vengeance
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faculty
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fleeting
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serene
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behold
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gorged
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hideous
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descend
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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instinctively
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possessed
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exacting
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acting
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alcoves
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orchids
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huddled
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meridians
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nags
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porcelain
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perfectly
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30
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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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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32
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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33
portray
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| v.描写，描述；画(人物、景象等) | |
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34
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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35
prerequisite
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| n.先决条件；adj.作为前提的，必备的 | |
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36
analyze
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| vt.分析，解析 (=analyse) | |
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37
divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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38
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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39
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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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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41
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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42
divan
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| n.长沙发；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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43
avenger
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| n. 复仇者 | |
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44
gamut
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| n.全音阶，(一领域的)全部知识 | |
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45
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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46
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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47
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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48
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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49
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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50
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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51
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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52
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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53
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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monarchs
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| 君主，帝王( monarch的名词复数 ) | |
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57
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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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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60
routs
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| n.打垮，赶跑( rout的名词复数 )；（体育）打败对方v.打垮，赶跑( rout的第三人称单数 )；（体育）打败对方 | |
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61
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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65
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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linguistic
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| adj.语言的，语言学的 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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80
impecunious
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| adj.不名一文的，贫穷的 | |
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81
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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83
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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84
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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85
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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86
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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87
regale
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| v.取悦，款待 | |
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88
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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89
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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90
disapproving
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| adj.不满的，反对的v.不赞成( disapprove的现在分词 ) | |
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91
canny
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| adj.谨慎的，节俭的 | |
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92
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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93
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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94
tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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95
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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97
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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98
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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99
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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100
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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101
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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102
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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103
ingenuously
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| adv.率直地，正直地 | |
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104
enumerating
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的现在分词 ) | |
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105
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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106
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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107
temporize
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| v.顺应时势；拖延 | |
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108
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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109
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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110
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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111
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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112
leaven
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| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
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113
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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114
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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115
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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116
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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117
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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