More than a year had gone by since Maurice Clissold had said farewell to Borcel End, and he had not yet found leisure to revisit that peaceful homestead. He had corresponded with Martin Trevanard regularly during the interval2, and had heard all that was to be told of Borcel and its neighbourhood; how Mrs. Penwyn was daily becoming more and more popular, how her schools flourished, her cottagers thrived, her cottage gardens blossomed as the rose; and how Mr. Penwyn, though respected for his liberality and justice, and looked up to very much in his parliamentary capacity, had not yet found the knack3 of making himself popular. From time to time, in reply to Maurice’s inquiries5, Martin had written a few words about Muriel. She was always the same—there was no change. She was neither better nor worse, and the good old grandmother was very careful of her, and kept her from wandering about the house at night. Nothing had happened to disturb the even current of life at Borcel End.
This year that had gone had brought success, and, in some measure, fame, to Maurice Clissold. He had published the long-contemplated volume of verse, the composition whereof had been his labour and delight since he left the university. His were not verses ‘thrown off’ in the leisure half-hours of a man whose occupations were more serious—verses to be apologized for, with a touch of proud humility6, in a preface. They contained the full expression of his life. They were strong with all the strength of his manhood. Passion, fervour, force, intensity7, were there; and the world, rarely slow to appreciate youthful fire, was quick to recognise their real power. Maurice Clissold slowly awoke to the fact that, under his nom de plume8, he was famous. He had taken care not to affix9 his real name to that confession10 of faith—not to let all the world know that his was that inner life which a poet reveals half unconsciously, even when he writes about the shadows his fancy has created. In the story-poem which made the chief portion of his volume Maurice had, in some wise, told the story of his own passion, and his own disappointment. Pain and disillusion11 had given their bitter flavour to his verse; but happily for the poet’s reputation, it was just that bitter-sweet—that sub-acid, which the lovers of sentimental12 poetry like. That common type of womanhood, fair and lovable, and only false under the pressure of circumstance, was here represented with undeniable vigour13. The modern Helen, the woman whose passive beauty and sweetness are the source of tears and death, and whom the world forgives because she is mild and fair, here found a powerful limner. He had spared not a detail of that cruel portrait. It was something better than a miniature of that one girl who had jilted him. It was the universal image of weakly, selfish womanhood, yielding, unstable14, caressing15, dependent, and innately16 false.
Side by side with this picture from life he had set the ideal woman, pure, and perfect, and true, lovely in face and form, but more lovely in mind and soul. Between these two he had placed his hero, wayward, mistaken, choosing the poison-flower, instead of the sweet thornless rose, led through evil ways to a tragical17 end, comforted by the angel-woman only as chill death sealed his lips. Bitterness and sorrow were the dominant18 notes of the verse, but it was a pleasing bitter, and a melodious19 sadness.
There was a run on Mudie’s for ‘A Life Picture, and other Poems,’ by Clifford Hawthorn20. The book was widely reviewed, but while some critics hailed the bard21 as that real poet for whom the age had been waiting, others dissected22 the pages with a merciless scalpel, and denounced the writer as a profligate23 and an infidel. The fugitive24 pieces, brief lyrics25 some of them, with the delicate finish of a cabinet picture, won almost universal favour. In a word Maurice Clissold’s first venture was a success.
He was not unduly26 elated. He did not believe in himself as the poet for whom the expectant age had been on the look-out. He had measured himself against giants, and was pretty clear in his estimate of his own powers. This pleasant taste of the strong wine of success made him only more intent upon doing better. It stimulated27 ambition, rather than satisfied it. Perhaps the adverse28 criticism did him most good, for it created just that spirit of opposition29 which is the best incentive30 to effort.
Very happy was the bachelor-poet’s life in those days. He had lived just long enough to survive the pain of his first disappointment. It was a bitter memory still, but a memory which but rarely recurred31 to mar1 his peace. He had friends who understood him—two or three real friends, who with his publisher alone knew the secret of his authorship. He had an occupation he loved, just enough ambition to give a stimulus32 to life, and he had not a care.
He had visited the Penwyns in Eton Square several times during the course of the season, but he had been careful not to go to that very pleasant house too often. Afternoon tea in Mrs. Penwyn’s drawing-room—the smaller drawing-room, with its wealth of flowers, was a most delightful33 manner of wasting an hour or so. But Maurice felt somehow that it was an indulgence he must not give himself too often. He had a lurking34 fear of Viola. She was very fair, and sweet and gentle, like the girl he had loved, and though he had, as yet, regarded her with only the most fraternal feeling—nay, a sentiment approaching indifference,—he had an idea that there might be peril35 in too much friendliness36.
Dropping in one afternoon at the usual hour, he was pleased to see his own book on one of the gipsy tables.
‘Have you read this “Life Picture,” which the critics have been abusing so vigorously?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I saw it dreadfully cut up in the Saturday Review, so I thought it must be nice, and sent to the publishers for a copy,’ answered Madge. ‘I’ve had it down on my Mudie’s list ever so long, without effect. It’s a wonderful book. Viola and I were up till three o’clock this morning reading it together. Neither of us could wait. From the moment we began with that picture of a London twilight37, and the two girls and the young lawyer sitting in a balcony talking, we were riveted38. It is all so easy, so lifelike, so full of vigour and freshness and colour.’
‘The author would be very much flattered if he could hear you,’ said Maurice.
‘The author—oh, I’m afraid he must be rather a disagreeable person. He seems to have such a bad opinion of women.’
‘Oh, Madge, his heroine is a noble creature!’ cried Viola.
‘Yes, but the woman his hero loves best is worthless.’
‘Well, I should like to know the author,’ said Viola.
‘I don’t think Churchill would get on very well with him,’ said Madge. And that to her mind made an end of the question.
The only people she sought were people after Churchill’s own heart. This poet had a wildness in his ideas which the Squire39 of Penwyn would hardly approve.
Among Mr. Clissold’s literary acquaintance was a clever young dramatic author, whose work was just beginning to be popular. One afternoon at the club—a rather Bohemian institution for men of letters, in one of the streets of the Strand40—this gentleman—Mr. Flittergilt—invited Maurice to assist at the first performance of his last comedietta at a small and popular theatre near at hand.
They dined together, and dropped in at the theatre just as the curtain was falling on a half-hour farce41 played while the house was filling. The piece of the evening came next. ‘No Cards,’ an original comedy in three acts; which announcement was quite enough to convince Maurice that the motive42 was adapted from Scribe, and the comic underplot conveyed from a Palais Royal farce.
‘There’s a new girl in my piece,’ said Mr. Flittergilt, on the tiptoe of expectation, ‘such a pretty girl, and by no means a bad actress.’
‘Where does she come from?’
‘Goodness knows. It’s her first appearance in London.’
‘Humph, comes to the theatre in her brougham, I suppose, and has her dresses made by Worth.’
‘Not the least in the world. She wore a shabby grey thing, which I believe you call alpaca, at rehearsal43 this morning, and she ran into the theatre, dripping like a naiad, in a waterproof—if you can imagine a naiad in a waterproof—having failed to get a seat in a twopenny omnibus.’
‘That is the prologue,’ said Maurice, with a slight shoulder-shrug. ‘Perhaps Madge was right, and that he really had a bad opinion of women.’
He turned to the programme listlessly presently, and read the old names he knew so well, for this house was a favourite lounge of his.
‘Well,’ said Mr. Flittergilt, pulling on a new glove, and making a wry45 face, perhaps at the tightness of the glove—perhaps at the awkwardness of the question—‘I admit there was a germ in that last piece at the Vaudeville46, which I have ripened47 and expanded, you know. There always is a germ, you see, Maurice. It’s only from the brains of a Jove that you get a full-grown Minerva at a rush.’
‘I understand. The piece is a clever adaptation. Why, what’s this?’
‘Celia Flower, Miss Justina Elgood.’
‘Flittergilt,’ said Maurice, solemnly, ‘I know that young woman, and I regret to inform you that, though really a superior girl in private life, she is a very poor actress. If the fortunes of your piece are entrusted49 to her, I am sorry for you.’
‘If she acts as well to-night as she did this morning at rehearsal, I shall be satisfied,’ replied Mr. Flittergilt. ‘But how did you come to know her?’
Maurice told the story of those two days at Eborsham. ‘Poor child, when last I saw her she was bowed down with grief for my murdered friend. I dare say she has forgotten all about him by this time.’
‘She doesn’t look like a girl who would easily forget,’ said the dramatist.
The curtain rose on one of those daintily furnished interiors which the modern stage realizes to such perfection. Flowers, birds, statuettes, pictures, a glimpse of sunlit garden on one side, and an open piano on the other. A girl was seated on the central ottoman, looking over a photograph album. A young man was in a half-recumbent position at her feet, looking up at her. The girl was Justina Elgood—the old Justina, and yet a new Justina—so wondrously50 had the overgrown girl of seventeen improved in womanly beauty and grace. The dark blue eyes, with their depth of thought and tenderness of expression, were alone unchanged. Maurice could have recognised the girl anywhere by those eyes.
The management had provided the costumes for the piece, and Justina, in her white silk dress, with its voluminous frills and flouncings, looked as elegant a young woman as one could desire to see offered up, Iphigenia-like, on the altar of loyalty51 at St. James’s Palace, to be almost torn to pieces on a drawing-room day. Celia Flower is the heroine of the comedy, and this is her wedding morning, and this young man at her feet is a cousin and rejected lover. She is looking over the portraits of her friends, in order to determine which she shall preserve and which drop after marriage.
Mr. Flittergilt’s comedy goes on to show that Celia’s intended union is altogether a mistake, that she really loves the rejected cousin, that he honestly loves her, that nothing but misery52 can result from the marriage of interest which has been planned by Celia’s relatives.
Celia is at first indifferent and frivolous53, thinking more of her bridal toilet than of the bond which it symbolizes54. Little by little she awakens55 to deeper thought and deeper feeling, and here, slender as Mr. Flittergilt’s work is, there is scope for the highest art.
Curiously56 different is the actress of to-day from the girl whose ineptitude57 the strolling company at Eborsham had despised. There is a brightness and spontaneity about her comedy, a simple artless tenderness in her touches of sentiment, which show the untaught actress—the actress whose art has grown out of her own depth of feeling, whose acting58 is the outcome of a rich and thoughtful mind rather than the hard and dry result of tuition and study, or the mechanical art of imitation. Impulse and fancy give their bright brief flashes of light and colour to the interpretation59, and the dramatist’s creation lives and moves before the audience,—not a mere60 mouthpiece for smart sayings or graceful61 bits of sentiment—but a being with a soul, an original absolute creation of an original mind.
The audience are enchanted62, Mr. Flittergilt is in fits of admiration63 of himself and the actress. ‘By Jove, that girl is as good as Nesbitt, and my dialogue is equal to Sheridan’s!’ he ejaculates, when the first act is over, and the rashly enthusiastic, without waiting for the end, begin to clamour for the author. And Maurice—well, Maurice sits in a brown study, far back in the box, and unseen by the actors, astride upon his chair, his arms folded upon the back of it, his chin upon his folded arms, the image of intense contemplation.
‘By heaven, the girl is a genius,’ he says to himself. ‘I thought there was something noble about her, but I did not think two short years would work such a change as this.’
At the end of the piece Justina was received with what it is the fashion to call an ovation64. There were no bouquets65 thrown to her, for these floral offerings are generally pre-arranged by the friends and admirers of an actress, and Justina had neither friends nor admirers in all the great city to plan her triumph. She had conquered by the simple force of an art which was spontaneous and unstudied as the singing of a nightingale. Time and practice had made her mistress of the mechanism66 of her art, had familiarized her with the glare of the lights and the strange faces of the crowd, had made her as much at her ease on the stage as in her own room. The rest had come unawares, it had come with the ripening67 of her mind, come with the thoughtfulness and depth of feeling that had been the growth of that early disappointment, that first brief dream of love, with its sad sudden ending.
When the piece was over, and Justina and Mr. Flittergilt had enjoyed their triumph, and all the actors had been called for and applauded by a delighted audience, Maurice suddenly left the box. He had done nothing to help the applause, but had stood in his dark corner like a rock, while the little theatre shook with the plaudits of pit and gallery.
‘Come, I say, that’s rather cool,’ the dramatist muttered to himself. ‘He might have said something civil, anyhow; I was just going to ask him if he’d like to go behind the scenes, too.’ The accomplished68 Flittergilt had contented69 himself with bowing from his box, and he was now in haste to betake himself to the green-room, there to receive the congratulations of the company, and to render the usual meed of praise and thanks to the interpreters of his play.
The green-room at the Royal Albert Theatre was a very superior apartment to the green-room at Eborsham. It was small, but bright and comfortable-looking, with carpeted floor, looking-glasses over chimney-piece and console table, photographs and engraved70 portraits of popular actors and actresses upon the gaily71 papered walls, a cushioned divan72 all round the room, and nothing but the table and its appurtenances wanted to make the apartment resemble a billiard-room in a pleasant unpretentious country house.
Here, standing73 by the console table, and evidently quite at his ease, Mr. Flittergilt found his friend talking to the new actress. Mr. Clissold had penetrated74 to the sacred chamber75 somehow, without the dramatist’s safe-conduct.
‘How did you get here?’ asked Flittergilt, annoyed.
‘Oh, I hardly know. The old man at the stage door didn’t want to admit me. I’m afraid I said I was Miss Elgood’s brother, or something of that kind, I was so desperately76 anxious to see her.’
He had been congratulating Justina on her developed talents. The girl’s success had surprised herself more than any one else. She had been applauded and praised by provincial77 critics of late, but she had not thought that a London audience was so easily conquered. The dark eyes shone with a new light, for success was very sweet. In the background stood a figure that Maurice had not observed till just now, when he made way for Mr. Flittergilt.
This was Matthew Elgood, clad in the same greasy-looking frock coat, or just such a coat as that which he had worn two years ago at Eborsham, but smartened by an expanse of spotless shirt-front, which a side view revealed to be only frontage, and not an integral part of his shirt, and a purple satin cravat78.
‘How do you do, Mr. Elgood? Are you engaged here too?’ asked Maurice.
‘No, sir. There was no opening for a man of my standing. The pieces which are popular now-a-days are too flimsy to afford an opening for an actor of weight, or else they are one-part pieces written for some mannerist80 of the hour. The genuine old legitimate81 school of acting—the school which was fostered in the good old provincial theatres—is nowhere now-a-days. I bow to the inevitable82 stroke of Time. I was born some twenty years too late. I ought to have been the compeer of Macready.’
‘Your daughter has been fortunate in making such a hit.’
‘Ay, sir. The modern stage is a fine field for a young woman with beauty and figure, and when that young woman’s talents have been trained and fostered by a man who knows his art, she enters the arena83 with the assurance of success. There was a time when the malignant84 called my daughter a stick. There was a time when my daughter hated the profession. But my fostering care has wrought85 the change which surprises you to-night. A dormant86 genius has been awakened—I will not venture to say by a kindred genius, lest the remark should savour of egotism.’
‘You are without occupation, then, in London, Mr. Elgood?’
‘Yes, Mr. Clissold, but I have my vocation87; I am here as guardian88 and protector of my innocent child.’
‘I told Miss Elgood two years ago that, if ever she came to London and needed a friend, my best services should be at her disposal. But her success of to-night has made her independent of friendship.’
‘I don’t know about that, Mr. Clissold. You are a literary man, I understand, a friend of Mr. Flittergilt’s, and you have doubtless some influence with dramatic critics. One can never have too much help of that kind. There is a malevolent89 spirit in the press which requires to be soothed90 and overcome by friendly influences. Beautiful, gifted as my daughter is, I feel by no means sure of the newspapers. Our unpretending domicile is at No. 27, Hudspeth Street, Bloomsbury, a lowly but a central locality. If you will favour us with a call I shall be delighted. Our Sunday evenings are our own.’
‘I shall lose no time in availing myself of your kind permission,’ said Maurice; and then he added in a lower tone, for Mr. Elgood’s ear only, ‘I hope your daughter has got over the grief which that dreadful event at Eborsham occasioned her.’
‘She has recovered from the blow, sir, but she has not forgotten it. A curiously sensitive child, Mr. Clissold. Who could have supposed that so brief an acquaintance with your murdered friend could have produced so deep an impression upon that young mind? She was never the same girl afterwards. From that time she seemed to me to dwell apart from us all, in a world of her own. She became after a while more attentive91 to her professional duties—more anxious to excel—more interested in the characters she represented, and she began to surprise us all by touches of pathos92 which we had not expected from her. She engaged with Mr. Tilberry, of the Theatre Royal, Westborough, for the juvenile93 lead about six months after your young friend’s death, and has maintained a leading position in the provinces ever since. “Sweet are the uses of adversity, which, like the toad,” &c. Her genius seemed to have been called into being by sorrow. Good night, Mr. Clissold. I dare say Justina will be ready to go home by this time. If you can square any of the critics for us, you will discover that Matthew Elgood knows the meaning of the word gratitude94.’
Maurice promised to do his best, and that evening at his club near the Strand, used all the influence he had in Justina’s favour. He found his task easy. The critics who had seen Mr. Flittergilt’s new comedy were delighted with the new actress. Those who had been elsewhere, assisting at the production of somebody else’s new piece, heard their brothers of the pen enthusiastic in their encomiums, and promised to look in at the Royal Albert Theatre on Monday.
To-night was Saturday. Maurice promised himself that he would call in Hudspeth Street to-morrow evening. He had another engagement, but it was one that could be broken without much offence. And he was curious to see the successful actress at home. Was she much changed from the girl he had surprised on her knees by the clumsy old arm-chair, shedding passionate95 tears for James Penwyn’s death? He had thought her half a child in those days, and the possibilities of fame whereof he had spoken so consolingly very far away. And behold96! she was famous already—in a small way, perhaps, but still famous. On Monday the newspapers would be full of her praises. She would be more immediately known to the world than he, the poet, had made himself yet. And she had already tasted the sweetness of applause coming straight from the hearts and hands of her audience, not filtered through the pens of critics, and losing considerable sweetness in the process.
The illimitable regions of Bloomsbury have room enough for almost every diversity of domicile, from the stately mansions98 of Russell Square to the lowly abode99 of the mechanic and the charwoman. Hudspeth Street is an old-fashioned, narrow street of respectable and substantial-looking houses, which must once have been occupied by the professional classes, or have served as the private dwellings100 of wealthy traders, but which now are for the most part let off in floors to the shabby-genteel and struggling section of humanity, or to more prosperous mechanics, who ply4 their trades in the sombre paneled rooms, with their tall mantel-boards and deep-set windows.
The street lies between the oldest square of this wide district and a busy thoroughfare, where the costermongers have it all their own way after dark; but Hudspeth Street wears at all times a tranquil101 gloom, as if it had been forgotten somehow by the majority, and left behind in the general march of progress. Other streets have burst out into stucco, and masked their aged79 walls with fronts of plaster, as ancient dowagers hide their wrinkles under Bloom de Ninon or Blanc de Rosati. But here the dingy102 old brick fa?ades remain undisturbed, the old carved garlands still decorate the doorways103, the old extinguishers still stand ready to quench104 torches that have gone to light the dark corridors of Hades.
To Maurice Clissold on this summer evening—Sunday evening, with the sound of many church bells filling the air—Hudspeth Street seems a social study, a place worth half an hour’s thought from a philosophical105 lounger, a place which must have its memories.
No. 27 is cleaner and brighter of aspect than its immediate97 neighbours. A brass106 plate upon the door announces that Louis Charlevin, artist in buhl and marqueterie, occupies the ground-floor. Another plate upon the doorpost bears the name of Miss Girdleston, teacher of music; and a third is inscribed107 with the legend, Mrs. Mapes, Furnished Lodgings108, and has furthermore a little hand pointing to a bell, which Maurice rings.
The door is opened by a young person, who is evidently Mrs. Mapes’s daughter. Her hair is too elaborate, her dress too smart, her manner too easy for a servant under Mrs. Mapes’s dominion109. She believes that Mr. Elgood is at home, and begs the visitor to step up to the second floor front, not troubling herself to precede and announce him.
Maurice obeys, and speeds with light footstep up the dingy old staircase. The house is clean and neat enough, but has not been painted for the last thirty years, he opines. He taps lightly at the door and some one bids him enter. Mr. Elgood is lying on a sofa, smoking luxuriously110, with a glass of cold punch on the little table at his elbow. The Sunday papers lie around him. He has been reading the records of Justina’s success, and is revelling111 in the firstfruits of prosperity.
Justina is sitting by an open window, dressed in some pale lavender-hued gown, which sets off the tall and graceful figure. Her head leans a little back against the chintz cushion of the high-backed chair, an open book lies on her lap. It falls as she rises to receive the visitor, and Maurice stoops to pick it up.
His own poem.
It gives him more pleasure, somehow, to find it in her hands than he derived112 from the praises of those two fashionable and accomplished women, Mrs. Penwyn and her sister. It touches him more deeply still to see that Justina’s cheeks are wet with tears.
‘She has been crying over some foolish poetry, instead of thanking Providence113 for such criticism as this,’ said Mr. Elgood, slapping his hand upon the Sunday Times.
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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ply
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| v.(搬运工等)等候顾客，弯曲 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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humility
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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affix
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| n.附件，附录 vt.附贴，盖(章)，签署 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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unstable
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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innately
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tragical
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dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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melodious
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hawthorn
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bard
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dissected
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profligate
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lyrics
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unduly
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stimulated
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adverse
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opposition
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incentive
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| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
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recurred
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stimulus
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delightful
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lurking
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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36
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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37
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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38
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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41
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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42
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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43
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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44
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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46
vaudeville
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| n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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47
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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49
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wondrously
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| adv.惊奇地，非常，极其 | |
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51
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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54
symbolizes
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的第三人称单数 ) | |
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awakens
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的第三人称单数 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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57
ineptitude
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| n.不适当；愚笨，愚昧的言行 | |
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58
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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ovation
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| n.欢呼，热烈欢迎，热烈鼓掌 | |
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bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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67
ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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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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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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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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78
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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80
mannerist
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| n.矫揉造作者 | |
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81
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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82
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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83
arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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84
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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85
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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86
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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87
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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88
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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89
malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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90
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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92
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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93
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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94
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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95
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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96
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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97
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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98
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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99
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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100
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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101
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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102
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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103
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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104
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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105
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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106
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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107
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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108
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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109
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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110
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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111
revelling
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| v.作乐( revel的现在分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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112
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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113
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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