“Arrange it as you like,” said the weary Bigourdin.
Fortinbras arranged and Martin became outwardly the perfect waiter. Of the craft itself he had much to learn, chiefly under the guidance of Bigourdin and sometimes under the shy instruction of Félise. Its many calls on intelligence and bodily skill surprised him. To balance a piled-up tray on one bent-back hand required the art of a juggler14. He practised for days with a trayful of bricks before he trusted himself with plates and dishes. By means of this exercise his arm became muscular. He discovered that the long, grave step of the professor—especially when he bore a load of eatables—did not make for the perfect waiter’s celerity. He acquired the gentle arts of salad making and folding napkins into fantastic shapes. Never handy with his fingers, and, like most temperate15 young men in London lodgings16, unaccustomed to the corkscrew, he found the clean prestidigitation of cork-drawing a difficult accomplishment17. But he triumphed eventually in this as in all other branches of his new industry. And he liked it. It amused and interested him. It was work of which he could see the result. The tables set before the meal bore testimony18 to his handicraft. Never had plate been so polished, cutlery so lustrous19, glass so transparent20 in the hundred years history of the H?tel des Grottes. And when the guests assembled it was a delight to serve them according to organised scheme and disarm21 criticism by demonstration22 of his efficiency. He rose early and went to bed late, tired as a draught-dog and slept the happy sleep of the contented23 human.
“What you are doing it for, mon ami, I can’t imagine.”
“Our good friends the English are a wonderful race,” said Bigourdin, “and I admire them enormously, but there’s not one of them who isn’t a little bit mad.”
To the coterie26 of the Café de l’Univers, however, he gave a different explanation altogether of Professor Martin’s descent in the social scale. The Professor, said he, had abandoned the professoriat for the more lucrative27 paths of commerce and had decided28 to open a hotel in England, where every one knew the hotels were villainous and provided nothing for their clients but overdone29 bacon and eggs and raw beef-steaks. The Professor, more enlightened than his compatriots, was apprenticing30 himself to the business in the orthodox Continental31 fashion. As the substantial Gaspard Bigourdin himself, son of the late equally substantially, although one-armed and one-legged Armédée Bigourdin, had, to the common knowledge of Brant?me, served as scullion, waiter, sous-chef de cuisine32, sous-ma?tre d’h?tel, and bookkeeper at various hotels in Lyons, in order to become the bon h?telier that he was, his announcement caused no sensation whatever. The professor of the Ecole Normale bewailed his own chill academic lot and proclaimed Monsieur Martin an exceedingly lucky fellow.
“But, mon cher patron, it isn’t true what you have said at the Café de l’Univers,” protested Martin, when Bigourdin told him of the explanation.
Bigourdin waved his great arm. “How am I to know it isn’t true? How am I to get into the English minds of you and my farceur of a brother-in-law so as to discover why you arrive as an honoured guest at my hotel and then in the wink33 of an eye become the waiter of the establishment? What am I to say to our friends? They wouldn’t care a hang (ils se ficheraient pas mal) for your soul. If you are to continue to mix with them on terms of equality they must have an explanation, nom de Dieu, which they can understand.”
“I never dreamed,” said Martin, “of entering the circle at the Café again.”
“Mais, j’y ai pensé, moi, animal!” cried Bigourdin. “Because you have the fantasy of becoming my waiter, are you any less the same human being I had the pleasure of introducing to my friends?”
And then, perhaps for the first time, Martin appreciated his employer’s fine kindness and essential loyalty34. It would have been quite easy for the innkeeper to dismiss his waiter from the consideration of the hierarchy35 of Brant?me as a mad Englishman, an adventurer, not a professor at all, but a broken-down teacher of languages giving private lessons—an odd-job instructor38 who finds no respect in highly centralised, bureaucratic39 France; but the easy way was not the way of Gaspard Bigourdin. So Martin, driven by force majeure, lent himself to the pious40 fraud and, when the evening’s work was done, divested41 himself of his sable42 panoply43 of waiterdom and once more took his place in the reserved cosy44 corner of the Café de l’Univers.
The agreeable acidity45 in his life which he missed when Corinna, graciously dignified46, had steamed off by the night train, he soon discovered in the pursuit of his new avocation47. Euphémie, the cook, whose surreptitious habits of uncleanliness carefully hidden from Félise, but unavoidably patent to an agonised Martin, supplied as much sourness as his system required. She would not take him seriously and declared her antipathy48 to un monsieur in her kitchen. To bring about an entente49 cordiale was for Martin an education in diplomacy50. The irritability51 of a bilious52 commercial traveller, poisoned by infected nourishment53 at his last house of entertainment—the reason invariably given for digestive misadventure—so that his stomach was dislocated, often vented54 itself on the waiter serving an irreproachable55 repast at the H?tel des Grottes. The professional swallowing of outraged56 feelings also gave a sub-acid flavour to existence. Motorists on the other hand, struck by his spruceness and polite demeanour, administered pleasant tonic57 in the form of praise. They also bestowed58 handsome tips.
These caused him some misgiving60. A gentleman could be a waiter or anything you pleased, so long as it was honest, and remain a gentleman: but could he take tips? Or rather, having taken tips, was it consonant61 with his gentility to retain them? Would it not be nobler to hand them over to Baptiste or Euphémie? Bigourdin, appealed to, decided that it would be magnificent but would inevitably62 disorganise these excellent domestics. Martin suggested the Assistance Publique or the church poor-box.
“I thought,” said Bigourdin, “you became a waiter in order to earn your living?”
“That is so,” replied Martin.
“Then,” said Bigourdin, “earn it like a waiter. Suppose I were the manager of a Grand Hotel and gave you nothing at all—as it is your salary is not that of a prince—how would you live? You are a servant of the public. The public pays you for your services. Why should you be too proud to accept payment?”
“But a tip’s a tip,” Martin objected.
“It is good money,” said Bigourdin. “Keep your fine five-franc pieces in your pocket and elles feront des petits, and in course of time you will build with them an hotel on the C?te d’Azur.”
In a letter to Corinna, Martin mentioned the disquieting63 problem. Chafing64 in her crowded vicarage home she offered little comfort. She made the sweeping65 statement that whether he kept his tips or not, the whole business was revolting. He wrote to Fortinbras. The Dealer66 in Happiness replied on a postcard: “Will you never learn that a sense of humour is the beginning and end of philosophy?”
After which, Martin, having schooled himself to the acceptance of pourboires, learned to pocket them with a professional air and ended by regarding them as part of the scheme of the universe. As the heavens rained water on the thirsty fields, so did clients shower silver coins on hungry waiters. How far, as yet, it was good for his soul he could not determine. At any rate, in his mild, unambitious way, he attained67 the lower rungs of happiness. I do not wish it to be understood that if he had entered as a stranger, say, the employment of the excellent proprietor68 of the excellent H?tel de Commerce at Périgueux, he would have found the same contentment of body and spirit. The alleviations of the H?tel des Grottes would have been missing. His employer, while acknowledging his efficiency still regarded him as an eccentric professor, and apart from business relations treated him as friend and comrade. The notables of the town accepted him as an equal. To the cave-dwellers and others of the proletariat with whom he had formed casual acquaintance, he was still “Monsieur Martin,” greeted with the same shade of courteous69 deference70 as before, although the whole population of Brant?me knew of his social metamorphosis. Wherever he went, in his walks abroad, he met the genial71 smile and raised hat. He contrasted it all with the dour72 unwelcome of the North London streets. There he had always felt lost, a drab human item of no account. Here he had an identity, pleasantly proclaimed. So would a sensitive long-sentence Convict, B 2278, coming into the world of remembering men, rejoice that he was no longer a number, but that intensely individual entity73 Bill Smith, recognised as a lover of steak-and-kidney pudding. As a matter of fact, he seldom heard his surname. The refusal of Bigourdin’s organs of speech to grapple with the Saxon “Overshaw” has already been remarked upon. From the very first Bigourdin decreed that he should be “Monsieur Martin”—Martin pronounced French fashion—and as “Monsieur Martin” he introduced him to the Café de l’Univers, and “Monsieur Martin” he was to all Brant?me. But of what importance is a surname, when you are intimately known by your Christian74 name to all of your acquaintance? Who in the world save his mother and the Hastings family had for dreary75 ages past called him “Martin”? Now he was “Martin”—or “Monsieur Martin”—a designation which agreeably combined familiarity with respect—to all who mattered in Périgord. It must be remembered that it was an article of faith among the good Brant?mois that, in Périgord, only Brant?me mattered.
“You people are far too good to me,” he remarked one day to Bigourdin. “It is a large-hearted country.”
And then there was Félise, who in her capacity of task-mistress called him peremptorily77 “Martin”; but out of official hours nearly always prefixed the “Monsieur.” She created an atmosphere of grace around the plates and dishes, her encouraging word sang for long afterwards in his ears. With a tact78 only to be found in democratic France she combined the authority of the superior with the intellectual inferior’s respect. Apparently79 she concerned herself little about his change of profession. Her father, the all-wise and all-perfect, had ordained80 it; her uncle, wise and perfect, had acquiesced81; Martin, peculiarly wise and almost perfect, had accepted it with enthusiasm. Who was she to question the doings of inscrutable men?
They met perforce more often than during his guesthood, and, their common interests being multiplied, their relations became more familiar. They had reached now the period of the year’s stress, that of the great foie gras making when fatted geese were slain82 and the masses of swollen83 liver were extracted and the huge baskets of black warty84 truffles were brought in from the beech85 forests where they had been hunted for by pigs and dogs. Martin, like every one else in the household, devoted86 all his spare moments to helping87 in the steaming kitchen supervised by a special chef, and in the long, clean-smelling work-room where rows of white-aproned girls prepared and packed the delectable88 compound. Here Bigourdin presided in brow-knit majesty89 and Félise bustled90 a smiling second in command.
“It is well to learn everything,” she said to Martin. “Who knows when you may be glad to have been taught how to make paté de foie gras?”
So Martin, though such a course was not contemplated91 in his agreement with the H?tel des Grottes, received much instruction from her in the delicate craft, which was very pleasant indeed. And the girls looked on at the lessons after the way of their kind and exchanged glances one with another, and every one, save perhaps Bigourdin, who had not yet recovered his serenity92 overclouded by Corinna’s rejection93 of his suit, was exceedingly contented.
And then, lo and behold, into this terrestrial paradise strayed the wandering feet of Lucien Viriot.
Not that Lucien was unexpected. His father, Monsieur Viriot, marchand de vins en gros, and one of the famous circle at the Café de l’Univers, had for the past month or two nightly proclaimed the approaching release of the young man from military service. Martin had heard him. Bigourdin on their walks home together had dilated94 on the heaven-decreed union of the two young people and the loneliness of his lot. Where would he find, at least, such a ménagère as Félise?
“It’s a pity Corinna hadn’t any sense,” said Martin on one of these occasions.
Bigourdin heaved a mighty95 sigh. “Ah, mon vieux!” said he by way of answer. The sigh and the “Ah, mon vieux!” were eloquent96 of shattered ideals.
“There is always Madame Thuillier who used to help me when Félise was little,” he continued after a while, meditatively97. “She has experience, but she is as ugly as a monkey, the poor woman!”
Whereupon he sighed again, leaving Martin in doubt as to the exact position he intended the ill-favoured lady to occupy in his household.
Anyhow, Martin was forewarned of the ex-warrior’s advent36. So was Félise. “But I cannot leave you, mon oncle,” she cried in dismay. “What would become of you? Who would mend your linen98? What would become of the hotel? What would become of the fabrique?”
“Bah!” said he, snapping his fingers at such insignificant99 considerations. “There is always the brave Madame Thuillier.”
“You are mistaken, mon enfant,” replied Bigourdin. “I have a great regard for her. She has striking qualities. She is a woman of ripe age and much common sense.”
Which shows how double-tongued men may be.
“C’est une vieille pimbèche!” cried Félise.
“Tais-toi,” said Bigourdin severely102. For a “vieille pimbèche” means, at the very least, a horrid103 old tabby with her claws out.
“I won’t be silent,” laughed Félise rebelliously104. “C’est une vieille pimbèche, and I’m not going to leave you to her. I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to marry.”
“That is what all little girls say,” replied Bigourdin. “But when you see Lucien return, joli gar?on, holding his head in the air like a brave little soldier of France, and looking at you out of his honest eyes, you will no longer tell me, ‘Je ne veux pas me marier, mon oncle.’?”
“It’s true all the same,” she retorted. “I don’t want to marry anybody, and Lucien after having seen all the pretty girls of Paris won’t want to marry me.”
“If he doesn’t——!” cried Bigourdin threateningly. “If he dares——!”
“Well, what then?” asked Félise.
“I’ll have a serious conversation with his father,” declared Bigourdin.
Thus both Martin and Félise, as I have said, were forewarned. Yet neither took much notice of the warning. Martin had been aware, all along, of the destiny decreed for her by the omnipotent107 Triumvirate consisting of her uncle, the bon Dieu and Monsieur Viriot, and, regarding her as being sealed to another, had walked with Martin-like circumspection108 (subject, in days not long since past, for Corinna’s raillery) along the borderline of the forbidden land of tenderness. But this judicious109 and conscientious110 skirting had its charm. I would have you again realise that the eternal feminine had entered his life only in the guise: first, of the kissed damsel who married the onion-loving plumber111; secondly112, of Corinna, by whose “Bo!” he had been vastly terrified until he had taken successfully to saying “Bo!” himself, a process destructive of romantic regard; and thirdly, of Félise, a creature—he always remembered Fortinbras’s prejudiced description—“like one of the wild flowers from which Alpine114 honey is made,” and compact of notable, gentle and adorable qualities. Naturally, of the three, he preferred Félise. Félise, for her part, like the well brought up damsel of the French bourgeoisie, never allowed her eyelids115 to register the flutterings of the heart which the mild young Englishman’s society set in action. She scarcely admitted the flutterings to herself. Possibly, if he had been smitten116 with a fine frenzy117 of love-making, she would have been shocked. But as he shewed respectful gratification at being allowed to consort118 with her and gratitude119 for her little bits of sympathetic understanding, and as she found she could talk with him more spontaneously than with any other young man she had ever met, she sought rather than avoided the many daily opportunities for pleasant intercourse120. And there was not the least harm in it; and the bogey121 of a Lucien (whom she had liked well enough, years ago in a childish way) was still hundreds of miles from Brant?me. In fact they entered upon as pretty a Daphnis and Chloe idyll as ever was enacted122 by a pair of innocents.
Then, one fine day, as I have stated, in swaggered Lucien Viriot, ex-cuirassier, and spoiled the whole thing.
His actual hour of swaggering into Martin’s ken37 was unexpected—by Martin, at any rate. He was playing backgammon with the Professor of the Ecole Normale in the midst of elders discussing high matters of local politics, when all of a sudden an uproar123 arose among these grave and reverend seniors, clapping of hands and rattling124 on tables, and Martin, looking up from his throw of the dice113, perceived the stout125, square-headed, close-cropped Monsieur Viriot, marchand de vins en gros, his eyes sparkling and his cheeks flushed above his white moustache and imperial, advancing from the café door, accompanied by his square-headed, close-cropped, sturdy, smiling, swaggeringly-sheepish, youthful replica126. And when they reached the group, the young man bowed punctiliously127 before grasping each outstretched hand; and every one called him “mon brave” to which he replied “bien aimable”; and Monsieur Viriot presented him formally—“mon his qui vient de terminer son service militaire”—to Monsieur Beuzot, Professor à l’Ecole Normale, a newcomer to Brant?me, and to Monsieur Martin, ancien professeur anglais. Whereupon Monsieur Lucien Viriot declared himself enchanted128 at meeting the two learned gentlemen, and the two learned gentlemen reciprocated129 the emotion of enchantment130. Then amid scuffling of chairs and eager help of waiters, room was made for Monsieur Viriot and Monsieur Lucien; and the proprietor of the café, Monsieur Cazensac, swarthy, portly and heavy-jowled, a Gascon from Agen, who, if the truth were known took the good, easy folk of Périgord under his protection, came up from behind the high bottle-armamented counter, where Madame Cazensac, fat and fair, prodigally131 beamed on the chance of a ray reaching the hero of the moment—which happened indeed before Cazensac could get in a word, and brought Lucien to his feet in a splendid spread of homage132 to the lady—Monsieur Cazensac, I say, came up and grasped Lucien by the hand and welcomed him back to the home of his fathers. He turned to Monsieur Viriot.
“Monsieur orders——?”
Happy land of provincial134 France where you order champagne as you order brandy and soda135 and are contented when you get it. There is no worry about brand or vintage or whether the wine is brut or extra-sec. You just tell the good landlord to bring you champagne and he produces the sweet, sticky, frothy, genuine stuff, and if you are a Frenchman, you are perfectly136 delighted. It is champagne, the wine of feasts, the wine of ceremony, the wine of ladies, the wine of toasts—Je lève mon verre. If the uplifted glass is not beaded with bubbles winking137 at the brim, what virtue138 is there in the uplifting? It is all a symbolical139 matter of sparkle. . . . So, at the Café de l’Univers, Monsieur Cazensac disappeared portentously140, and a few moments later re-appeared ever so much more portentously, followed by two waiters, one bringing the foot-high sacred glasses, the other the uncorked bottles labelled for all who wished to know what they were drinking: “Grand Champagne d’Ay,” with the vine-proprietor’s name inconspicuously printed in the right-hand bottom corner. All, including Monsieur Cazensac, clinked foaming141 glasses with Lucien, and, after they had sipped142 in his honour, they sipped again to the cries of “Vive l’Armée” and “Vive la France,” whereupon they all settled down comfortably again to the enjoyment143 of replenished144 goblets145 of the effervescing146 syrup147.
Martin looked with some envy at the young man who sat flushed with his ovation148 and twisted his black moustache to the true cuirassier’s angle, yet bore himself modestly among his elders. Willing and gay of heart he had given the years of his youth to the service of his country; when the great struggle should come—and all agreed it was near—he would be one of the first to be summoned to defend her liberty, and willing and gay of heart he would ride to his death. And now, in the meanwhile, he had returned to the little square hole in France that had been ordained for him (little square peg149) before he was born, and was to be reserved for him as long as his life should last. And Martin looked again at the chosen child of destiny, and this time with admiration150, for he knew him to be a man; a man of the solid French stock that makes France unshakable, of the stock that in peace may be miserly of its pence, but in war is lavish151 of its blood. “I am not that young fellow’s equal,” thought Martin humbly152; and he felt glad that he had not betrayed Bigourdin’s trust with regard to Félise. What kind of a wretch153 would he have been to set himself up as a rival to Lucien Viriot? Bigourdin had been right in proclaiming the marriage as arranged by the bon Dieu. He loved Félise—who knowing her did not? But he loved her in brotherly fashion and could reconcile it to his heart to bestow59 her on one so worthy154. And all this without taking into account the sentiments of Félise. Her heart, in military phrase, was a ville ouverte. Lucien had but to march in and take it.
After a while Lucien, having looked about the café, rose and went from table to table where sat those citizens who, by reason of lowlier social status or personal idiosyncrasies, had not been admitted into the Inner Coterie of Notables, and greeted old acquaintances. Monsieur Viriot then caught Martin’s eye and lifted his glass again.
“A votre santé, Monsieur Martin.”
Martin bowed. “A la v?tre, monsieur!”
“I hope that you and my son will be good friends. It is important that the youth of our two countries, so friendly, so intimately bound, should learn to know and appreciate each other; especially when one of them, like yourself, has the power of translating England into terms of France.”
And with the courteous simplicity155 of a grey, square-headed, close-cropped marchand de vins en gros, he lifted his glass again.
“A l’Entente Cordiale.”
When Lucien returned to the circle, his father re-introduced him to Martin.
“In fact,” he concluded, “here is an Englishman who not only speaks French like you and me, but eats truffles and talks the idiom of the quarrymen and is qualifying himself to be a good Périgordin.”
It was charmingly said. The company hummed approval.
“C’est bien vrai,” said Bigourdin.
Lucien again bowed. He would do himself the honour of presenting himself at monsieur’s hotel. Monsieur was doubtless staying at the H?tel des Grottes.
“Monsieur Bigourdin has taken me as a waiter into his service,” replied Martin.
“Ah! Tant mieux!” exclaimed Lucien, as if the announcement were the most ordinary one in the world, and shook hands with him heartily156.
“Like that, as my father says, one becomes a good Périgordin.”
So Martin went home and contentedly157 to bed. Again a little corner of the earth that he might call his own was offered him in this new land so courteous to, yet so sensitively aloof158 from the casual Englishman, but on the other hand, so generous and hospitable159 to the Englishman into whom the spirit of France had entered. Was there here, thought he, the little round hole which he, little round peg, after thirty years of square-holed discomfort160, had been pre-ordained to fill? The thought soothed161 him.
He woke up in the night, worried by some confused dream. In his head stuck the Latin tag: Ubi bene ibi patria. He kicked indignantly against the aphorism162. It was the infamous163 philosophy of the Epicurean opportunist. If he had been comfortable in Germany would he regard Germany as his fatherland? A million times no. When you wake up at four o’clock in the morning to a soul-stirring proposition, you think in terms of millions. He was English of the English. His Swiss motherdom was but an accident of begetting164. He was of his father’s race. Switzerland did not exist in his being as a national influence. English, narrowly, stupidly, proudly, he was and English he would remain to the end of time. To denaturalise himself and become a Frenchman—still less a mere165 Périgordin—was abhorrent166. But to remain an Englishman, and as an Englishman—an obscure and menial Englishman—to be given the freedom of a province of old France was an honour of which any man breathing the breath of life might be justly proud. I can, thought he, in the intense, lunatic clarity of four o’clock in the morning, show France what England stands for. I have a chance of one in a million. I am an Englishman given a home in the France that I am learning to love and to understand, I am a hyphen between the two nations.
Having settled that, he turned over, tucked the bed-clothes well round his shoulders and went soundly to sleep again.
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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vehemently
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controverted
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| v.争论，反驳，否定( controvert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perplexed
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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subjective
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guise
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deftness
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disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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flick
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| n.快速的轻打，轻打声，弹开；v.轻弹，轻轻拂去，忽然摇动 | |
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juggler
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temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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lodgings
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accomplishment
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testimony
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lustrous
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transparent
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disarm
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| v.解除武装，回复平常的编制，缓和 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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contented
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shrugged
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attain
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coterie
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lucrative
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decided
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overdone
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apprenticing
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continental
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cuisine
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| n.烹调，烹饪法 | |
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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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34
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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35
hierarchy
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| n.等级制度；统治集团，领导层 | |
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36
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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37
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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38
instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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39
bureaucratic
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| adj.官僚的，繁文缛节的 | |
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40
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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41
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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42
sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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43
panoply
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| n.全副甲胄，礼服 | |
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44
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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45
acidity
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| n.酸度，酸性 | |
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46
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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47
avocation
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| n.副业，业余爱好 | |
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48
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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49
entente
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| n.协定；有协定关系的各国 | |
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50
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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51
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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52
bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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53
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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54
vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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56
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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57
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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58
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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60
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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61
consonant
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| n.辅音；adj.[音]符合的 | |
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62
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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63
disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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64
chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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65
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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66
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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67
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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68
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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69
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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70
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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71
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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72
dour
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| adj.冷酷的，严厉的；（岩石）嶙峋的；顽强不屈 | |
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73
entity
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| n.实体，独立存在体，实际存在物 | |
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74
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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75
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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76
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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77
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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78
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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79
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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80
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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81
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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83
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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84
warty
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| adj.有疣的，似疣的；瘤状 | |
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85
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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86
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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87
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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88
delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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89
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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90
bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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91
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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92
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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93
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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94
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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96
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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97
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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98
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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99
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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100
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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101
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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103
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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104
rebelliously
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| adv.造反地，难以控制地 | |
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105
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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106
mimicry
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| n.（生物）拟态，模仿 | |
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107
omnipotent
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| adj.全能的，万能的 | |
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108
circumspection
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| n.细心，慎重 | |
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109
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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110
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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111
plumber
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| n.(装修水管的)管子工 | |
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112
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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113
dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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114
alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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115
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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116
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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117
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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118
consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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119
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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120
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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121
bogey
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| n.令人谈之变色之物；妖怪，幽灵 | |
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122
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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124
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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126
replica
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| n.复制品 | |
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127
punctiliously
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128
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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129
reciprocated
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| v.报答，酬答( reciprocate的过去式和过去分词 )；（机器的部件）直线往复运动 | |
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130
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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131
prodigally
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| adv.浪费地，丰饶地 | |
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132
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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133
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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134
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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135
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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136
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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137
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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138
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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139
symbolical
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| a.象征性的 | |
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140
portentously
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141
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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142
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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143
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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144
replenished
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| 补充( replenish的过去式和过去分词 )； 重新装满 | |
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145
goblets
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| n.高脚酒杯( goblet的名词复数 ) | |
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146
effervescing
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| v.冒气泡，起泡沫( effervesce的现在分词 ) | |
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147
syrup
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| n.糖浆，糖水 | |
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148
ovation
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| n.欢呼，热烈欢迎，热烈鼓掌 | |
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149
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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150
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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151
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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152
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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153
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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154
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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155
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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156
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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157
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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158
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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159
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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160
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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161
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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162
aphorism
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| n.格言，警语 | |
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163
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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164
begetting
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| v.为…之生父( beget的现在分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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165
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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166
abhorrent
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| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
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