She was the daughter of a gentleman of Lower Brittany, settled in the neighborhood of Blois, and of a Mlle de Grajac, a native of Velay. Caroline hardly knew her mother. Madame de Saint-Geneix died the third year of her marriage in giving birth to Camille, having exacted a promise from Justine Lanion to spend several years with the motherless children.
Justine Lanion—Peyraque, by marriage—was a robust2 and honest peasant-woman of Velay, who consented to remain eight years with M. de Saint-Geneix. She had been Caroline's nurse, and had afterward3 returned to her own family, whence she was soon called back to give the milk of her second child to the second daughter of her "dear lady." Thanks to this faithful creature, Caroline and Camille knew the care and tenderness of a second mother; still, Justine could not forget her husband and her own children. She had, at last, to return to her province, and M. de Saint-Geneix took his daughters to Paris, where they were brought up in one of the convents then in fashion.
As he was not rich enough to live in Paris, he rented temporary apartments there, to which he went twice a year for the Easter Holidays and his daughters' vacations. These were also the worthy4 man's vacations. He practised economy the rest of the year that he might refuse nothing to his children in those days of patriarchal merry-making. Then their time was absorbed wholly in strolls, concerts, visiting the museums, excursions to the royal palaces or dinners, ruinous in their expense,—veritable pleasurings of a life, full of simple, paternal5 affection, indeed, but as imprudent as it well could be. The good man idolized his daughters, who were both very beautiful and as good as they were beautiful. It was a pleasant fancy with him to see them going out for a walk, dressed with perfect taste, looking fresher than their dresses and ribbons new from the shop; to display their beauty in the light and sunshine of Paris, that brilliant city, where he had few acquaintances, to be sure, but where the slightest notice of some casual passer-by seemed more important than any amount of provincial6 admiration7. To make Parisians, real Parisian ladies, of these two charming girls was the dream of his life. He would have spent his whole fortune to accomplish this; and—he did so spend it.
This infatuated desire to taste the delights of life in Paris is a species of fatality8 which had, a few years ago, taken possession not only of the well-to-do people of the provinces, but of whole classes. Every great foreign nobleman, also, howsoever little his cultivation9, rushed wildly to Paris, like a school-boy in vacation time, tore himself away from its attractions with bitter regret, and passed the rest of the year at home in devising measures to obtain the passport giving him leave to return. Even to-day, if it were not for the severity of laws which condemn10 Russians to Russia, and Poles to Poland, immense fortunes would vie with one another in their eagerness to come and be swallowed up in the pleasures of Paris.
The two young ladies each profited very differently by their elegant education. Camille, the younger and the prettier of the two,—which is saying a great deal,—entered heartily11 into the giddy tastes of her father, whom she resembled in face and in character. She was passionately13 fond of luxury, and it had never occurred to her that her life could ever become unhappy. Mild and loving, but not very intelligent, she became merely an accomplished14 young lady in the matters of style, dress, and manners. Returning to the convent at the close of her vacations, she passed three months languishing15 regretfully, the next three working a little in order to please her sister, who would otherwise find fault with her; and the rest of the term in dreaming about her father's return and the pleasures it would bring.
Caroline, on the other hand, was more like her mother, who had been a woman of seriousness and energy. Yet she was usually cheerful, and more demonstrative even than her sister in the hearty16 enjoyment17 of their freedom. She showed herself more eager to make the most of dress, of their walks and their sightseeing, but she relished18 all in a different way. She was far more intellectual than Camille, with no creative genius for Art indeed, but yet deeply sensitive to all its true manifestations19. She was born appreciative20; that is, she could express the unspoken thought of another with brilliancy and refinement22. She repeated poetry or read music with a surprising mastery of both. She spoke21 little, but always well, yet with a strange precision, as if her ideas were all drawn23 from within. But whenever she received suggestions from outside sources,—from books, music, or the stage,—she gave the written thought a new radiance. She seemed to be the necessary instrument of genius; within the limits of interpretation24, this gift of hers might have been genius itself, had it received its full development.
But this it never received. Caroline had commenced her education at ten years of age; at seventeen it was wholly broken off. This is the way it happened: M. de Saint-Geneix having an income of only twelve thousand francs, and yet dreaming of a future for his daughters worthy of their attractions, had entangled25 himself with pitiable ingenuousness26 in speculations27 which were to quadruple his property, and which engulfed28 it in instant ruin.
Very pale, and as if dazed by some powerful shock, he came one day to Paris for his daughters. He took them to his little manor-house with no explanation whatever, and complaining only of a slight fever. He lay there ill for three months, and then died of grief, confessing his ruin to his two future sons-in-law; for at the appearance of the young ladies at Blois, many suitors presented themselves, and two of them had been accepted.
The gentleman betrothed30 to Camille was a civil officer, a respectable man, who was sincerely fond of her, and married her in spite of everything. Caroline was engaged to a gentleman of property. He reasoned more selfishly, plead the opposition31 of his family, and withdrew his pretensions32. Caroline was brave. Her weaker sister would have died of grief; but she was not the one deserted33. Weakness exacts respect oftener than energy. Moral courage is something invisible, and it breaks down silently. Killing34 a soul too leaves no trace. Therefore the strong are always buffeted35, and the weak are buoyed36 up always.
Fortunately for Caroline, her love had not been intense. Her heart, which was naturally affectionate, had begun to feel some confidence and sympathy; but the mysterious grief and the increasing illness of her father very soon took such strong possession of her mind that she could not permit herself to dwell much upon her own happiness. The love of a noble young woman is a flower which opens in the sunshine of hope; but all hopefulness on her own account was overshadowed by the feeling that her father's life was swiftly gliding37 away. She saw in her betrothed only a friend who would share with her the duty of weeping. Toward him she felt gratitude38 and esteem39; but grief stood in the way of elation40 and enthusiasm. Passion had not had time to blossom.
Caroline was then rather bruised41 than broken by desertion. Her love for her father was so great, and she mourned him so deeply, that the ruin of her own future prospects42 seemed to her but a secondary grief. Though she was not at all indignant, yet she was sensible of the injury, and while she revenged herself only by forgetting, she preserved toward men a certain vague resentment43, which kept her from believing in love and from listening to the flatteries addressed to her beauty up to the age at which we now find her, cured, courageous44, and sincerely believing herself proof against all attraction.
It is unnecessary to recount the events of the years which we have just made her pass over. All the world knows that the loss of a fortune, small or great, does not become an accomplished fact visibly from one day to the next. Settlements with creditors45 are attempted, a belief that something may be saved from the wreck46 is entertained, a series of uncertainties47 is passed through, of astonishments, hopes deferred48, up to the day when, seeing all efforts fruitless, the situation, good or bad, is finally accepted. Camille was prostrated49 by this disaster, in which, to the last moment, she refused to believe; but she was well married and did not suffer any real hardship. Caroline, with more foresight50, was apparently51 less affected52 by the positive destitution53 which necessarily fell upon her. Her brother-in-law would not entertain the thought of their parting, and generously made her share the competence54 of his family; but she understood perfectly55 that her support was gone, and her pride increased on that account. Feeling that her sister lacked activity and a sense of order, and seeing moreover that she would be subject from year to year to the suffering and cares of maternity56, Caroline became the housekeeper57, the nurse of the children, in short, the first maid-servant of the little household, and into the austere58 duties of this self-sacrifice she contrived59 to work so much grace, good sense, and cheerfulness, that all was pleasant around her and she rendered more good offices than she received. Then came the illness of her brother-in-law, his death, the discovery of old debts which he had concealed60, intending to pay them off, gradually and easily, out of his salary; in short, the embarrassment61, anxiety, and trouble of Camille, and, at last, the utter despondency and misery62 of the young widow.
We have seen that, for some time, Caroline had been hesitating between the fear of leaving her sister alone and the desire to assist her by some direct effort. There was, indeed, one wealthy gentleman, neither young nor very gracious, who considered her a model housewife, and made her an offer of marriage. Caroline felt, at first vaguely63 but afterwards with sufficient clearness, that Camille wished her to sacrifice herself. She then determined64 that she would indeed make the sacrifice, but in a different way. She asked nothing better than to give up her freedom, her independence, her time, her life; but to demand the offering up of herself, soul and body, to procure65 a little more comfort for the family,—this was too much. She pardoned in the mother her selfishness as a sister, and without appearing to see it, she decided66 upon the course which we have seen her take. She left Camille in a poor little country home, rented in the neighborhood of Blois, and set out for Paris, where we know she was kindly67 welcomed by Madame de Villemer, whose history we have now also briefly68 to relate.
Every family has its sore spot, every fortune its open wound out of which its life-blood and the very security of its existence may ebb69 away. The noble family of Villemer had its skeleton in the wild misdoings of the eldest70 son of the Marchioness. The first husband of the Marchioness had been the Duke d'Aléria, a haughty71 Spaniard, with a terrible disposition72, who had made her as unhappy as she could be, but who, after five stormy years, had left her an ample fortune, and a son handsome, good-humored, and intelligent, though destined73 to become thoroughly74 sceptical, royally prodigal75, and miserably76 profligate77.
Having married the Marquis de Villemer, and becoming a mother and widow for the second time, the Marchioness found in Urbain, her second son, a devoted78, generous friend, as austere in his habits as his brother was corrupt79, rich enough by his paternal inheritance to prevent him from grieving too much about his mother's ruin; for, at the time when we begin our history of these three people, the Marchioness had little or nothing left, thanks to the life which the young Duke had led.
At this period, the young Duke was a little over thirty-six years of age, and the Marquis nearly thirty-three. The Duchess d'Aléria, as will be seen, had lost little time in becoming the Marchioness de Villemer. No one had blamed her for this. She was passionately attached to her second husband. It is even said that she had loved him as far as she might, in all honor and innocence80, before her first widowhood. The Marchioness had a generous nature and was somewhat excitable. And the premature81 death of this second husband made her almost insane for one or two years. She would not see any one, and even her own children became almost like strangers to her. Seeing this, the relatives of both her late husbands were disposed to set her aside and to take charge themselves of the education of her sons; but, at this idea, the Marchioness came to her senses. Nature made a great effort; her soul rose above its sorrow, her motherly feeling awoke, and the passionate12 crisis which made her cling to her two sons with tears and caresses82, restored her power of reasoning and the control of her will. She remained an invalid83, weak and prematurely84 old, a little peculiar85 in some respects, yet highly energetic in her conduct, exemplary in her affections, and truly noble in all her relations with the world. From this time forth86, she began to attract notice by the brightness of her mind, which had been for a long time asleep as it were in the midst of her sorrow and her love, but which now, at last, showed itself in the form of courage.
What precedes has sufficiently87 established her position in this story. We will now leave Caroline de Saint-Geneix to estimate as she understands them the Marchioness and her two sons.
LETTER TO MADAME CAMILLE HEUDEBERT.
Paris, March 15, 1845.
Yes, dear little sister, I am very well settled, as I have told you in my preceding letters. I have a pretty room, a good fire, a fine carriage, servants, and a well-furnished table. I have only to believe myself rich and a Marchioness, since, scarcely ever out of the presence of my old lady, I am necessarily a sharer in all the comforts of her life.
But you reproach me with writing very short letters. It is because, up to this time, I have had but a few moments to myself. In fact, the Marchioness, who, I believe, wished to put me a little to proof, appears now to be satisfied that I am quite sincerely devoted to her, and she permits me to leave her at midnight. So I can chat with you without having to sit up till four o'clock in the morning to do it, for the Marchioness receives till two, and she kept me an hour afterward to discuss the people whom we had just seen,—a task which, I will confess to you as I confessed to her, began to be very wearisome to me. She thought that I was, like her, a late riser. When she learned that I always awoke at six o'clock in the morning, and could not get asleep again, she generously respected that "provincial infirmity." So, morning or evening, I shall be hereafter at your service, dear Camille.
Yes, I love this old lady, and I love her a great deal. She has a great charm for me, and the influence which she exercises over my mind comes especially from the sincerity88 and purity of her own. She is not without prejudices, it is true, and she has many ideas which are not, and never will be, mine; but she holds to these honestly, without anything like hypocritical subterfuge89, and the antipathies90 which she expresses are not at all formidable; for even in her prepossessions her perfect integrity is manifest.
And besides, during the three weeks in which I have seen the great world,—since the Marchioness, without giving formal parties, receives quite a number of visits every evening,—I have become aware of a general eclipse, of which, in the remoteness of my province, I never formed so complete an idea. I assure you that, with the best of manners and a certain air of superiority, people here are as nearly nonentities91 as they can possibly be. They no longer have opinions on anything; they find fault with everything, and know the remedy for nothing. They speak ill of everybody, and are nevertheless on the best terms with everybody. There is no indignation about it, just merely scandal. They are always predicting the greatest catastrophes92, and they seem to enjoy the most profound security. In a word, they are as empty and shallow as fickleness93, as weakness itself; and in the midst of these troubled spirits and of these threadbare convictions, I love this old Marchioness, so frank in her antipathies and so nobly inaccessible94 to compromise. I seem to see a personage of another century, a sort of female Duke de Saint-Simon, guarding the respect of rank as a religion, and understanding nothing of the power of money against which feeble or hypocritical protests are made around her.
And as far as I am concerned, you know the contempt of money goes a good way. Our misfortunes have not changed me, for I do not call by the name of money that sacred thing, the salary which I now earn here proudly and even with a little haughtiness95. That is duty, a guaranty of honor. Luxury itself, when it is the continuation or the recompense of an elevated life, does not inspire me with the philosophic96 disdain97 which always conceals98 a trifle of envy; but wealth coveted99, hunted up and down, bought at the price of ambitious marriages, by the unwinding of political conscience, by family intrigues100 about successions,—these are what justly wear the villanous name of money, and on that point I agree heartily with the Marchioness, who has no pardon for interested and ill-suited marriages, and for all other insipid101 things, whether private or public.
That is why the Marchioness without regret and without dread102 sees all that she possesses fall day by day into a gulf29. I have already said something to you about that. I told you that the Duke d'Aléria, her elder son, ruined her, while the younger, the Marquis, the son of her last husband, came to her support with tender respect, and again placed her upon a very comfortable footing.
I must now speak of these two gentlemen, of whom I have yet told you but a few words. I have seen the Marquis from the first day of my installation here. Every morning from noon to one o'clock, and every evening from eleven till midnight, he passes with his mother. Besides, he dines with her quite frequently. I have therefore had time to observe him, and I imagine that I already know him tolerably well. He is a young man who appears to me to have had no youth. His health is delicate, and his mind, which is cultivated and elevated, is engaged in a struggle against some secret grief, or a natural tendency to sadness. He could not have an external appearance less striking at first sight, and exciting more sympathy in proportion to the degree in which his face reveals itself. He is neither tall nor short, neither handsome nor homely103. There is nothing negligent104 or studied in his style of dress. He seems to have an instinctive105 aversion to everything which might draw attention to the person. Yet one sees very soon that he is no ordinary man. The few words which he says to you have a deep or delicate meaning, and his eyes, when they lose the perplexity of a certain shyness, are so handsome, so good, so intelligent, that I do not believe I ever met their equals.
His conduct toward his mother is admirable and paints him at full length. I saw him pay out several millions, all his personal fortune, to discharge the rash debts of the elder son, and he never frowned, never said a word, never showed any vexation or regret. The weaker she was toward this ungrateful and graceless son, the more tender and devoted and respectful was the Marquis. You see it is impossible not to esteem this man, and, as for me, I feel a sort of veneration106 for him.
His conversation, too, is very agreeable. He scarcely speaks at all in society; but in intimacy107, when the first reserve is worn off, he talks charmingly. He is not only a cultivated man, he is a well of science. I believe he has read everything, for upon whatever subject you suggest, he is interesting, and proves that he has sounded it to the bottom. His conversation is so necessary to his mother, that when anything prevents his accustomed visit or lessens108 its duration, she is restless, and, as it were, out of her reckoning for the remainder of the day.
At first, as soon as I saw him come in the morning, I took it upon myself to retire, and I did so the more readily, seeing that this superior and therefore excessively modest man appeared embarrassed by my presence. It was doing me great honor, to be sure; but at the end of three or four days he had so far regained109 his tranquillity110 as to ask me very kindly why he put me to flight. I should not have believed myself authorised by that to restrain the confidential111 freedom of the son and mother; but she herself begged me to stay, even insisting upon it, and she afterward gave me with her habitual112 frankness her reason for so doing. And here is that reason, which is a little singular:—
"My son is of a melancholy113 spirit," she said; "that, however, is not my character. I am very much depressed114 or very animated115, never dreamy, and dreaminess in others irritates me a little. In my son it troubles or afflicts116 me. I have never been able to resign myself to it. When we are alone together it requires constant effort on my part to keep him from falling into his reveries. When we are surrounded by fifteen or twenty persons of an evening, he gives himself up to his thoughts without restraint, and frequently maintains a complete reserve. To enjoy the full flavor of his mind, which is my peculiar pleasure and greatest happiness, nothing is more favorable than the presence of a third person, especially if that third person is one of merit. The Marquis then takes the trouble to be charming, at first out of politeness and then little by little out of a fastidious desire to please, though he may not suspect it himself. In fact, he is a man who needs to be drawn away from his own reflections, and he is so perfect to me that I have not the right or the wish to enter upon this contest openly, while the presence of a person, who even without saying anything is supposed to listen, forces him to exert himself; seeing that, if he fears to appear a pedant117 by speaking too much, he fears still more to appear affected when he forgets himself in thought. So, my dear, you will do us both a great service in not leaving us too much alone."
"Nevertheless, Madame," I answered, "if you should have private matters to speak about, how shall I know?"
Thereupon she promised that in such a case she would give me notice by asking me if the clock is not slow.
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1
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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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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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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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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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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8
fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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12
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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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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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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languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ingenuousness
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| n.率直；正直；老实 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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buffeted
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| 反复敲打( buffet的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续猛击； 打来打去； 推来搡去 | |
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buoyed
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| v.使浮起( buoy的过去式和过去分词 )；支持；为…设浮标；振奋…的精神 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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38
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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40
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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41
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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42
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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43
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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46
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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47
uncertainties
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| 无把握( uncertainty的名词复数 )； 不确定； 变化不定； 无把握、不确定的事物 | |
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48
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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49
prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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50
foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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51
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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52
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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53
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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54
competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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55
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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56
maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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57
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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58
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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59
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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60
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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61
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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62
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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63
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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65
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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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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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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69
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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71
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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72
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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79
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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81
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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83
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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88
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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89
subterfuge
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| n.诡计；藉口 | |
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antipathies
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| 反感( antipathy的名词复数 )； 引起反感的事物； 憎恶的对象； （在本性、倾向等方面的）不相容 | |
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nonentities
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| n.无足轻重的人( nonentity的名词复数 )；蝼蚁 | |
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catastrophes
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| n.灾祸( catastrophe的名词复数 )；灾难；不幸事件；困难 | |
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fickleness
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| n.易变；无常；浮躁；变化无常 | |
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inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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95
haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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97
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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98
conceals
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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99
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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100
intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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101
insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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102
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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103
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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104
negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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105
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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106
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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107
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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108
lessens
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| 变少( lessen的第三人称单数 )； 减少（某事物） | |
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109
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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110
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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111
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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112
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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113
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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114
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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115
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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116
afflicts
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的名词复数 ) | |
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117
pedant
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| n.迂儒；卖弄学问的人 | |
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