All things pass, even the self-inflicted sufferings of shy young men, condemned4 by temperament5 to solitude. Came the winter evenings, I took to work: in it one may drown much sorrow for oneself. With its handful of fire, its two candles lighted, my “apartment” was more inviting6. I bought myself paper, pens and ink. Great or small, what more can a writer do? He is but the would-be medium: will the spirit voices employ him or reject him?
London, with its million characters, grave and gay; its ten thousand romances, its mysteries, its pathos7, and its humour, lay to my hand. It stretched before me, asking only intelligent observation, more or less truthful8 report. But that I could make a story out of the things I really knew never occurred to me. My tales were of cottage maidens9, of bucolic10 yeomen. My scenes were laid in windmills, among mountains, or in moated granges. I fancy this phase of folly11 is common to most youthful fictionists.
A trail of gentle melancholy12 lay over them. Sentiment was more popular then than it is now, and, as do all beginners, I scrupulously13 followed fashion. Generally speaking, to be a heroine of mine was fatal. However naturally her hair might curl—and curly hair, I believe, is the hall-mark of vitality14; whatever other indications of vigorous health she might exhibit in the first chapter, such as “dancing eyes,” “colour that came and went,” “ringing laughter,” “fawn-like agility,” she was tolerably certain, poor girl, to end in an untimely grave. Snowdrops and early primroses15 (my botany I worked up from a useful little volume, “Our Garden Favourites, Illustrated”) grew there as in a forcing house; and if in the neighbourhood of the coast, the sea-breezes would choose that particular churchyard, somewhat irreverently, for their favourite playground. Years later a white-haired man would come there leading little children by the hand, and to them he would tell the tale anew, which must have been a dismal17 entertainment for them.
Now and then, by way of change, it would be the gentleman who would fall a victim of the deadly atmosphere of my literature. It was of no particular consequence, so he himself would conclude in his last soliloquy; “it was better so.” Snowdrops and primroses, for whatever consolation18 they might have been to him, it was hopeless for him to expect; his grave, marked by a rude cross, being as a rule situate in an exceptionally unfrequented portion of the African veldt or amid burning sands. For description of final scenery on these occasions a visit to the British Museum reading-room would be necessary.
Dismal little fledgelings! And again and again would I drive them from the nest; again and again they fluttered back to me, soiled, crumpled19, physically20 damaged. Yet one person had admired them, cried over them—myself.
All methods I tried. Sometimes I would send them forth22 accompanied by a curt23 business note of the take-it-or-leave-it order. At other times I would attach to it pathetic appeals for its consideration. Sometimes I would give value to it, stating that the price was five guineas and requesting that the cheque should be crossed; at other times seek to tickle24 editorial cupidity25 by offering this, my first contribution to their pages, for nothing—my sample packet, so to speak, sent gratis26, one trial surely sufficient. Now I would write sarcastically27, enclosing together with the stamped envelope for return a brutally29 penned note of rejection30. Or I would write frankly31, explaining elaborately that I was a beginner, and asking to be told my faults—if any.
Not one found a resting place for its feet. A month, a week, a couple of days, they would remain away from me, then return. I never lost a single one. I wished I had. It would have varied32 the monotony.
I hated the poor little slavey who, bursting joyously33 into the room, would hold them out to me from between her apron34-hidden thumb and finger; her chronic35 sniff36 I translated into contempt. If flying down the stairs at the sound of the postman's knock I secured it from his hands, it seemed to me he smiled. Tearing them from their envelopes, I would curse them, abuse them, fling them into the fire sometimes; but before they were more than scorched37 I would snatch them out, smooth them, reread them. The editor himself could never have seen them; it was impossible; some jealous underling had done this thing. I had sent them to the wrong paper. They had arrived at the inopportune moment. Their triumph would come. Rewriting the first and last sheets, I would send them forth again with fresh hope.
Meanwhile, understanding that the would-be happy warrior40 must shine in camp as well as field, I sought to fit myself also for the social side of life. Smoking and drinking were the twin sins I found most difficulty in acquiring. I am not claiming a mental excellence41 so much as confessing a bodily infirmity. The spirit had always been willing, but my flesh was weak. Fired by emulation42, I had at school occasionally essayed a cigarette. The result had been distinctly unsatisfactory, and after some two or three attempts, I had abandoned, for the time being, all further endeavour; excusing my faint-heartedness by telling myself with sanctimonious43 air that smoking was bad for growing boys; attempting to delude44 myself by assuming, in presence of contemporaries of stronger stomach, fine pose of disapproval45; yet in my heart knowing myself a young hypocrite, disguising physical cowardice46 in the robes of moral courage: a self-deception to which human nature is prone47.
So likewise now and again I had tasted the wine that was red, and that stood year in, year out, decanted48 on our sideboard. The true inwardness of St. Paul's prescription49 had been revealed to me; the attitude—sometimes sneered50 at—of those who drink it under doctor's orders, regarding it purely51 as a medicine, appeared to me reasonable. I had noticed also that others, some of them grown men even, making wry52 faces, when drinking my mother's claret, and had concluded therefrom that taste for strong liquor was an accomplishment53 less easily acquired than is generally supposed. The lack of it in a young man could be no disgrace, and accordingly effort in that direction also had I weakly postponed54.
But now, a gentleman at large, my education could no longer be delayed. To the artist in particular was training—and severe training—an absolute necessity. Recently fashion has changed somewhat, but a quarter of a century ago a genius who did not smoke and drink—and that more than was good for him—would have been dismissed without further evidence as an impostor. About the genius I was hopeful, but at no time positively55 certain. As regarded the smoking and drinking, so much at least I could make sure of. I set to work methodically, conscientiously56. Smoking, experience taught me, was better practised on Saturday nights, Sunday affording me the opportunity of walking off the effects. Patience and determination were eventually crowned with success: I learned to smoke a cigarette to all appearance as though I were enjoying it. Young men of less character might here have rested content, but attainment58 of the highest has always been with me a motive59 force. The cigarette conquered, I next proceeded to attack the cigar. My first one I remember well: most men do. It was at a smoking concert held in the Islington Drill Hall, to which Minikin had invited me. Not feeling sure whether my growing dizziness were due solely60 to the cigar, or in part to the hot, over-crowded room, I made my excuses and slipped out. I found myself in a small courtyard, divided from a neighbouring garden by a low wall. The cause of my trouble was clearly the cigar. My inclination61 was to take it from my mouth and see how far I could throw it. Conscience, on the other hand, urged me to persevere62. It occurred to me that if climbing on to the wall I could walk along it from end to end, there would be no excuse for my not heeding63 the counsels of perfection. If, on the contrary, try as I might, the wall proved not wide enough for my footsteps, then I should be entitled to lose the beastly thing, and, as best I could, make my way home to bed. I attained64 the wall with some difficulty and commenced my self-inflicted ordeal65. Two yards further I found myself lying across the wall, my legs hanging down one side, my head overhanging the other. The position proving suitable to my requirements, I maintained it. Inclination, again seizing its opportunity, urged me then and there to take a solemn vow66 never to smoke again. I am proud to write that through that hour of temptation I remained firm; strengthening myself by whispering to myself: “Never despair. What others can do, so can you. Is not all victory won through suffering?”
A liking67 for drink I had found, if possible, even yet more difficult of achievement. Spirits I almost despaired of. Once, confusing bottles, I drank some hair oil in mistake for whiskey, and found it decidedly less nauseous. But twice a week I would force myself to swallow a glass of beer, standing39 over myself insisting on my draining it to the bitter dregs. As reward afterwards, to take the taste out of my mouth, I would treat myself to chocolates; at the same time comforting myself by assuring myself that it was for my good, that there would come a day when I should really like it, and be grateful to myself for having been severe with myself.
In other and more sensible directions I sought also to progress. Gradually I was overcoming my shyness. It was a slow process. I found the best plan was not to mind being shy, to accept it as part of my temperament, and with others laugh at it. The coldness of an indifferent world is of service in hardening a too sensitive skin. The gradual rubbings of existence were rounding off my many corners. I became possible to my fellow creatures, and they to me. I began to take pleasure in their company.
By directing me to this particular house in Nelson Square, Fate had done to me a kindness. I flatter myself we were an interesting menagerie gathered together under its leaky roof. Mrs. Peedles, our landlady69, who slept in the basement with the slavey, had been an actress in Charles Keane's company at the old Princess's. There, it is true, she had played only insignificant70 parts. London, as she would explain to us was even then but a poor judge of art, with prejudices. Besides an actor-manager, hampered71 by a wife—we understood. But previously72 in the Provinces there had been a career of glory: Juliet, Amy Robsart, Mrs. Haller in “The Stranger”—almost the entire roll of the “Legitimates”. Showed we any signs of disbelief, proof was forthcoming: handbills a yard long, rich in notes of exclamation74: “On Tuesday Evening! By Special Desire!!! Blessington's Theatre! In the Meadow, adjoining the Falcon75 Arms!”—“On Saturday! Under the Patronage76 of Col. Sir William and the Officers of the 74th!!!! In the Corn Exchange!” Maybe it would convince us further were she to run through a passage here and there, say Lady Macbeth's sleep-walking scene, or from Ophelia's entrance in the fourth act? It would be no trouble; her memory was excellent. We would hasten to assure her of our perfect faith.
Listening to her, it was difficult, as she herself would frankly admit, to imagine her the once “arch Miss Lucretia Barry;” looking at her, to remember there had been an evening when she had been “the cynosure77 of every eye.” One found it necessary to fortify78 oneself with perusal79 of underlined extracts from ancient journals, much thumbed and creased80, thoughtfully lent to one for the purpose. Since those days Fate had woven round her a mantle81 of depression. She was now a faded, watery-eyed little woman, prone on the slightest provocation82 to sit down suddenly on the nearest chair and at once commence a history of her troubles. Quite unconscious of this failing, it was an idea of hers that she was an exceptionally cheerful person.
“But there, fretting's no good. We must grin and bear things in this world,” she would conclude, wiping her eyes upon her apron. “It's better to laugh than to cry, I always say.” And to prove that this was no mere83 idle sentiment, she would laugh then and there upon the spot.
Much stair-climbing had bestowed84 upon her a shortness of breath, which no amount of panting in her resting moments was able to make good.
“You don't know 'ow to breathe,” explained our second floor front to her on one occasion, a kindly85 young man; “you don't swallow it, you only gargle with it. Take a good draught86 and shut your mouth; don't be frightened of it; don't let it out again till it's done something: that's what it's 'ere for.”
He stood over her with his handkerchief pressed against her mouth to assist her; but it was of no use.
“There don't seem any room for it inside me,” she explained.
Bells had become to her the business of life; she lived listening for them. Converse87 to her was a filling in of time while waiting for interruptions.
A bottle of whiskey fell into my hands that Christmas time, a present from a commercial traveller in the way of business. Not liking whiskey myself, it was no sacrifice for me to reserve it for the occasional comfort of Mrs. Peedles, when, breathless, with her hands to her side, she would sink upon the chair nearest to my door. Her poor, washed-out face would lighten at the suggestion.
“Ah, well,” she would reply, “I don't mind if I do. It's a poor heart that never rejoices.”
And then, her tongue unloosened, she would sit there and tell me stories of my predecessors88, young men lodgers89 who like myself had taken her bed-sitting-rooms, and of the woes90 and misfortunes that had overtaken them. I gathered that a more unlucky house I could not have selected. A former tenant91 of my own room, of whom I strangely reminded her, had written poetry on my very table. He was now in Portland doing five years for forgery92. Mrs. Peedles appeared to regard the two accomplishments93 as merely different expressions of the same art. Another of her young men, as she affectionately called us, had been of studious ambition. His career up to a point appeared to have been brilliant. “What he mightn't have been,” according to Mrs. Peedles, there was practically no saying; what he happened to be at the moment of conversation was an unpromising inmate94 of the Hanwell lunatic asylum95.
“I've always noticed it,” Mrs. Peedles would explain; “it's always the most deserving, those that try hardest, to whom trouble comes. I'm sure I don't know why.”
I was glad on the whole when that bottle of whiskey was finished. A second might have driven me to suicide.
There was no Mr. Peedles—at least, not for Mrs. Peedles, though as an individual he continued to exist. He had been “general utility” at the Princess's—the old terms were still in vogue96 at that time—a fine figure of a man in his day, so I was given to understand, but one easily led away, especially by minxes. Mrs. Peedles spoke98 bitterly of general utilities as people of not much use.
For working days Mrs. Peedles had one dress and one cap, both black and void of ostentation99; but on Sundays and holidays she would appear metamorphosed. She had carefully preserved the bulk of her stage wardrobe, even to the paste-decked shoes and tinsel jewelry100. Shapeless in classic garb101 as Hermia, or bulgy102 in brocade and velvet103 as Lady Teazle, she would receive her few visitors on Sunday evenings, discarded puppets like herself, with whom the conversation was of gayer nights before their wires had been cut; or, her glory hid from the ribald street beneath a mackintosh, pay her few calls. Maybe it was the unusual excitement that then brought colour into her furrowed104 cheeks, that straightened and darkened her eyebrows105, at other times so singularly unobtrusive. Be this how it may, the change was remarkable106, only the thin grey hair and the work-worn hands remaining for purposes of identification. Nor was the transformation107 merely one of surface. Mrs. Peedles hung on her hook behind the kitchen door, dingy108, limp, discarded; out of the wardrobe with the silks and satins was lifted down to be put on as an undergarment Miss Lucretia Barry, like her costumes somewhat aged21, somewhat withered109, but still distinctly “arch.”
In the room next to me lived a law-writer and his wife. They were very old and miserably110 poor. The fault was none of theirs. Despite copy-books maxims111, there is in this world such a thing as ill-luck-persistent, monotonous112, that gradually wears away all power of resistance. I learned from them their history: it was hopelessly simple, hopelessly uninstructive. He had been a schoolmaster, she a pupil teacher; they had married young, and for a while the world had smiled upon them. Then came illness, attacking them both: nothing out of which any moral could be deduced, a mere case of bad drains resulting in typhoid fever. They had started again, saddled by debt, and after years of effort had succeeded in clearing themselves, only to fall again, this time in helping113 a friend. Nor was it even a case of folly: a poor man who had helped them in their trouble, hardly could they have done otherwise without proving themselves ungrateful. And so on, a tedious tale, commonplace, trivial. Now listless, patient, hard working, they had arrived at an animal-like indifference114 to their fate, content so long as they could obtain the bare necessities of existence, passive when these were not forthcoming, their interest in life limited to the one luxury of the poor—an occasional glass of beer or spirits. Often days would go by without his obtaining any work, and then they would more or less starve. Law documents are generally given out to such men in the evening, to be returned finished the next morning. Waking in the night, I would hear through the thin wooden partition that divided our rooms the even scratching of his pen.
Thus cheek by jowl we worked, I my side of the screen, he his: youth and age, hope and realisation.
Out of him my fears fashioned a vision of the future. Past his door I would slink on tiptoe, dread115 meeting him upon the stairs. Once had not he said to himself: “The world's mine oyster116?” May not the voices of the night have proclaimed him also king? Might I not be but an idle dreamer, mistaking desire for power? Would not the world prove stronger than I? At such times I would see my life before me: the clerkship at thirty shillings a week rising by slow instalments, it may be, to one hundred and fifty a year; the four-roomed house at Brixton; the girl wife, pretty, perhaps, but sinking so soon into the slatternly woman; the squalling children. How could I, unaided, expect to raise myself from the ruck? Was not this the more likely picture?
Our second floor front was a young fellow in the commercial line. Jarman was Young London personified—blatant yet kind-hearted; aggressively self-assertive, generous to a fault; cunning, yet at the same time frank; shrewd, cheery, and full of pluck. “Never say die” was his motto, and anything less dead it would be difficult to imagine. All day long he was noisy, and all night long he snored. He woke with a start, bathed like a porpoise117, sang while dressing118, roared for his boots, and whistled during his breakfast. His entrance and exit were always to an orchestration of banging doors, directions concerning his meals shouted at the top of his voice as he plunged119 up or down the stairs, the clattering120 and rattling121 of brooms and pails flying before his feet. His departure always left behind it the suggestion that the house was now to let; it came almost as a shock to meet a human being on the landing. He would have conveyed an atmosphere of bustle122 to the Egyptian pyramids.
Sometimes carrying his own supper-tray, arranged for two, he would march into my room. At first, resenting his familiarity, I would hint at my desire to be alone, would explain that I was busy.
“You fire away, Shakespeare Redivivus,” he would reply. “Don't delay the tragedy. Why should London wait? I'll keep quiet.”
But his notion of keeping quiet was to retire into a corner and there amuse himself by enacting123 a tragedy of his own in a hoarse125 whisper, accompanied by appropriate gesture.
“Ah, ah!” I would hear him muttering to himself, “I 'ave killed 'er good old father; I 'ave falsely accused 'er young man of all the crimes that I 'ave myself committed; I 'ave robbed 'er of 'er ancestral estates. Yet she loves me not! It is streeange!” Then changing his bass127 to a shrill128 falsetto: “It is a cold and dismal night: the snow falls fast. I will leave me 'at and umbrella be'ind the door and go out for a walk with the chee-ild. Aha! who is this? 'E also 'as forgotten 'is umbrella. Ah, now I know 'im in the pitch dark by 'is cigarette! Villain129, murderer, silly josser! it is you!” Then with lightning change of voice and gesture: “Mary, I love yer!” “Sir Jasper Murgatroyd, let me avail myself of this opportunity to tell you what I think of you—” “No, no; the 'ouses close in 'alf an hour; there is not tee-ime. Fly with me instead!” “Never! Un'and me!” “'Ear me! Ah, what 'ave I done? I 'ave slipped upon a piece of orange peel and broke me 'ead! If you will kindly ask them to turn off the snow and give me a little moonlight, I will confess all.”
Finding it (much to Jarman's surprise) impossible to renew the thread of my work, I would abandon my attempts at literature, and instead listen to his talk, which was always interesting. His conversation was, it is true, generally about himself, but it was none the less attractive on that account. His love affairs, which appeared to be numerous, formed his chief topic. There was no reserve about Jarman: his life contained no secret chambers130. What he “told her straight,” what she “up and said to him” in reply was for all the world that cared to hear. So far his search after the ideal had met with but ill success.
“Girls,” he would say, “they're all alike, till you know 'em. So long as they're trying to palm themselves off on yer, they'll persuade you there isn't such another article in all the market. When they've got yer order—ah, then yer find out what they're really made of. And you take it from me, 'Omer Junior, most of 'em are put together cheap. Bah! it sickens me sometimes to read the way you paper-stainers talk about 'em—angels, goddesses, fairies! They've just been getting at yer. You're giving 'em just the price they're asking without examining the article. Girls ain't a special make, like what you seem to think 'em. We're all turned out of the same old slop shop.”
“Not that I say, mind yer,” he would continue, “that there are none of the right sort. They're to be 'ad—real good 'uns. All I say is, taking 'em at their own valuation ain't the way to do business with 'em.”
What he was on the look out for—to quote his own description—was a really first class article, not something from which the paint would come off almost before you got it home.
“They're to be found,” he would cheerfully affirm, “but you've got to look for 'em. They're not the sort that advertises.”
Behind Jarman in the second floor back resided one whom Jarman had nicknamed “The Lady 'Ortensia.” I believe before my arrival there had been love passages between the two; but neither of them, so I gathered, had upon closer inspection131 satisfied the other's standard. Their present attitude towards each other was that of insult thinly veiled under exaggerated politeness. Miss Rosina Sellars was, in her own language, a “lady assistant,” in common parlance132, a barmaid at the Ludgate Hill Station refreshment133 room. She was a large, flabby young woman. With less powder, her complexion134 might by admirers have been termed creamy; as it was, it presented the appearance rather of underdone pastry135. To be on all occasions “quite the lady” was her pride. There were those who held the angle of her dignity to be exaggerated. Jarman would beg her for her own sake to be more careful lest one day she should fall down backwards136 and hurt herself. On the other hand, her bearing was certainly calculated to check familiarity. Even stockbrokers137' clerks—young men as a class with the bump of reverence138 but poorly developed—would in her presence falter139 and grow hesitating. She had cultivated the art of not noticing to something approaching perfection. She could draw the noisiest customer a glass of beer, which he had never ordered; exchange it for three of whiskey, which he had; take his money and return him his change without ever seeing him, hearing him, or knowing he was there. It shattered the self-assertion of the youngest of commercial travellers. Her tone and manner, outside rare moments of excitement, were suggestive of an offended but forgiving iceberg140. Jarman invariably passed her with his coat collar turned up to his ears, and even thus protected might have been observed to shiver. Her stare, in conjunction with her “I beg your pardon!” was a moral douche that would have rendered apologetic and explanatory Don Juan himself.
To me she was always gracious, which by contrast to her general attitude towards my sex of studied disdain141, I confess flattered me. She was good enough to observe to Mrs. Peedles, who repeated it to me, that I was the only gentleman in the house who knew how to behave himself.
The entire first floor was occupied by an Irishman and—they never minced142 the matter themselves, so hardly is there need for me to do so. She was a charming little dark-eyed woman, an ex-tight-rope dancer, and always greatly offended Mrs. Peedles by claiming Miss Lucretia Barry as a sister artiste.
“Of course I don't know how it may be now,” would reply Mrs. Peedles, with some slight asperity143; “but in my time we ladies of the legitimate73 stage used to look down upon dancers and such sort. Of course, no offence to you, Mrs. O'Kelly.”
Neither of them was in the least offended.
“Sure, Mrs. Peedles, ye could never have looked down upon the Signora,” the O'Kelly would answer laughing. “Ye had to lie back and look up to her. Why, I've got the crick in me neck to this day!”
“Ah! my dear, and you don't know how nervous I was when glancing down I'd see his handsome face just underneath144 me, thinking that with one false step I might spoil it for ever,” would reply the Signora.
“Me darling! I'd have died happy, just smothered145 in loveliness!” would return the O'Kelly; and he and the Signora would rush into each other's arms, and the sound of their kisses would quite excite the little slavey sweeping146 down the stairs outside.
He was a barrister attached in theory to the Western Circuit; in practice, somewhat indifferent to it, much more attached to the lower strata147 of Bohemia and the Signora. At the present he was earning all sufficient for the simple needs of himself and the Signora as a teacher of music and singing. His method was simple and suited admirably the locality. Unless specially97 requested, he never troubled his pupils with such tiresome148 things as scales and exercises. His plan was to discover the song the young man fancied himself singing, the particular jingle149 the young lady yearned150 to knock out of the piano, and to teach it to them. Was it “Tom Bowling151?” Well and good. Come on; follow your leader. The O'Kelly would sing the first line.
“Now then, try that. Don't be afraid. Just open yer mouth and gave it tongue. That's all right. Everything has a beginning. Sure, later on, we'll get the time and tune38, maybe a little expression.”
Whether the system had any merit in it, I cannot answer. Certain it was that as often as not it achieved success. Gradually—say, by the end of twelve eighteen-penny lessons—out of storm and chaos152 “Tom Bowling” would emerge, recognisable for all men to hear. Had the pupil any voice to start with, the O'Kelly improved it; had he none, the O'Kelly would help him to disguise the fact.
“Take it easy, now; take it easy,” the O'Kelly would counsel. “Sure, it's a delicate organ, yer voice. Don't ye strain it now. Ye're at yer best when ye're just low and sweet.”
So also with the blushing pianiste. At the end of a month a tune was distinctly discernible; she could hear it herself, and was happy. His repute spread.
Twice already had he eloped with the Signora (and twice again was he to repeat the operation, before I finally lost sight of him: to break oneself of habit is always difficult) and once by well-meaning friends had he been induced to return to home, if not to beauty. His wife, who was considerably153 older than himself, possessed154, so he would inform me with tears in his eyes, every moral excellence that should attract mankind. Upon her goodness and virtue155, her piety156 and conscientiousness157 he would descant158 to me by the half hour. His sincerity159 it was impossible to question. It was beyond doubt that he respected her, admired her, honoured her. She was a saint, an angel—a wretch160, a villain such as he, was not fit to breathe the same pure air. To do him justice, it must be admitted he showed no particular desire to do so. As an aunt or grandmother, I believe he would have suffered her gladly. He had nothing to say against her, except that he found himself unable to live with her.
That she must have been a lady of exceptional merit one felt convinced. The Signora, who had met her only once, and then under somewhat trying conditions, spoke her praises with equal enthusiasm. Had she, the Signora, enjoyed the advantage of meeting such a model earlier, she, the Signora, might have been a better woman. It seemed a pity the introduction could not have taken place sooner and under different circumstances. Could they both have adopted her as a sort of mutual161 mother-in-law, it would have given them, I am positive, the greatest satisfaction. On her occasional visits they would have vied with each other in showing her affectionate attention. For the deserted162 lady I tried to feel sorry, but could not avoid the reflection that it would have been better for all parties had she been less patient and forgiving. Her husband was evidently much more suited to the Signora.
Indeed, the relationship between these two was more a true marriage than one generally meets with. No pair of love-birds could have been more snug163 together. In their virtues164 and failings alike they fitted each other. When sober the immorality165 of their behaviour never troubled them; in fact, when sober nothing ever troubled them. They laughed, joked, played through life, two happy children. To be shocked at them was impossible. I tried it and failed.
But now and again there came an evening when they were not sober. It happened when funds were high. On such occasion the O'Kelly would return laden166 with bottles of a certain sweet champagne167, of which they were both extremely fond; and a friend or two would be invited to share in the festivity. Whether any exceptional quality resided in this particular brand of champagne I am not prepared to argue; my own personal experience of it has prompted me to avoid it for the rest of my life. Its effect upon them was certainly unique. Instead of intoxicating168 them, it sobered them: there is no other way of explaining it. With the third or fourth glass they began to take serious views of life. Before the end of the second bottle they would be staring at each other, appalled169 at contemplation of their own transgression170. The Signora, the tears streaming down her pretty face, would declare herself a wicked, wicked woman; she had dragged down into shame the most blameless, the most virtuous171 of men. Emptying her glass, she would bury her face in her hands, and with her elbows on her knees, in an agony of remorse172, sit rocking to and fro. The O'Kelly, throwing himself at her feet, would passionately173 abjure174 her to “look up.” She had, it appeared, got hold of the thing at the wrong end; it was he who had dragged her down.
At this point metaphor175 would become confused. Each had been dragged down by the other one and ruined; also each one was the other one's good angel. All that was commendable176 in the Signora, she owed to the O'Kelly. Whatever was not discreditable about the O'Kelly was in the nature of a loan from the Signora. With the help of more champagne the right course would grow plain to them. She would go back broken-hearted but repentant177 to the tight-rope; he would return a better but a blighted178 man to Mrs. O'Kelly and the Western Circuit. This would be their last evening together on earth. A fresh bottle would be broached179, and the guest or guests called upon to assist in the ceremony of renunciation; glasses full to the brim this time.
So much tragedy did they continue to instil180 into the scene that on the first occasion of my witnessing it I was unable to refrain from mingling181 my tears with theirs. As, however, the next morning they had forgotten all about it, and as nothing came of it, nor of several subsequent repetitions, I should have believed a separation between them impossible but that even while I was an inmate of the house the thing actually happened.
It came about in this wise. His friends, having discovered him, had pointed182 out to him again his duty. The Signora—a really excellent little woman so far as intention was concerned—had seconded their endeavours, with the result that on a certain evening in autumn we of the house assembled all of us on the first floor to support them on the occasion of their final—so we all deemed it then—leave-taking. For eleven o'clock two four-wheeled cabs had been ordered, one to transport the O'Kelly with his belongings183 to Hampstead and respectability; in the other the Signora would journey sorrowfully to the Tower Basin, there to join a circus company sailing for the Continent.
I knocked at the door some quarter of an hour before the appointed hour of the party. I fancy the idea had originated with the Signora.
“Dear Willie has something to say to you,” she had informed me that morning on the stairs. “He has taken a sincere liking to you, and it is something very important.”
They were sitting one each side the fireplace, looking very serious; a bottle of the sobering champagne stood upon the table. The Signora rose and kissed me gravely on the brow; the O'Kelly laid both hands upon my shoulders, and sat me down on a chair between them.
“Mr. Kelver,” said the Signora, “you are very young.”
I hinted—it was one of those rare occasions upon which gallantry can be combined with truth—that I found myself in company.
The Signora smiled sadly, and shook her head.
“Age,” said the O'Kelly, “is a matter of feeling. Kelver, may ye never be as old as I am feeling now.”
“As we are feeling,” corrected the Signora. “Kelver,” said the O'Kelly, pouring out a third glass of champagne, “we want ye to promise us something.”
“It will make us both happier,” added the Signora.
“That ye will take warning,” continued the O'Kelly, “by our wretched example. Paul, in this world there is only one path to possible happiness. The path of strict—” he paused.
“Propriety,” suggested the Signora.
“Of strict propriety,” agreed the O'Kelly. “Deviate from it,” continued the O'Kelly, impressively, “and what is the result?”
“Unutterable misery,” supplied the Signora.
“Ye think we two have been happy here together,” said the O'Kelly.
I replied that such was the conclusion to which observation had directed me.
“We tried to appear so,” explained the Signora; “it was merely on the outside. In reality all the time we hated each other. Tell him, Willie, dear, how we have hated each other.”
“It is impossible,” said the O'Kelly, finishing and putting down his glass, “to give ye any idea, Kelver, how we have hated each other.”
“How we have quarrelled!” said the Signora. “Tell him, dear, how we have quarrelled.”
“All day long and half the night,” concluded the O'Kelly.
“Fought,” added the Signora. “You see, Mr. Kelver, people in—in our position always do. If it had been otherwise, if—if everything had been proper, then of course we should have loved each other. As it is, it has been a cat and dog existence. Hasn't it been a cat and dog existence, Willie?”
“It's been just hell upon earth,” murmured the O'Kelly, with his eyes fixed184 gloomily upon the fire-stove ornament185. Deadly in earnest though they both were, I could not repress a laugh, their excellent intention was so obvious. The Signora burst into tears.
“Me dear,” replied the O'Kelly, throwing up his part with promptness and satisfaction, “how could ye expect it? How could he believe that any man could look at ye and hate ye?”
“It's all my fault,” cried the little woman; “I am such a wicked creature. I cannot even be miserable187 when I am doing wrong. A decent woman in my place would have been wretched and unhappy, and made everybody about her wretched and unhappy, and so have set a good example and have been a warning. I don't seem to have any conscience, and I do try.” The poor little lady was sobbing188 her heart out.
When not shy I could be sensible, and of the O'Kelly and the Signora one could be no more shy than of a pair of robin189 redbreasts. Besides, I was really fond of them; they had been very good to me.
“Dear Miss Beltoni,” I answered, “I am going to take warning by you both.”
She pressed my hand. “Oh, do, please do,” she murmured. “We really have been miserable—now and then.”
“I am never going to be content,” I assured her, “until I find a lady as charming and as amiable190 as you, and if ever I get her I'll take good care never to run any risk of losing her.”
It sounded well and pleased us all. The O'Kelly shook me warmly by the hand, and this time spoke his real feelings.
“Me boy,” he said, “all women are good—for somebody. But the woman that is good for yerself is better for ye than a better woman who's the best for somebody else. Ye understand?”
I said I did.
At eight o'clock precisely191 Mrs. Peedles arrived—as Flora192 MacDonald, in green velvet jacket and twelve to fifteen inches of plaid stocking. As a topic fitting the occasion we discussed the absent Mr. Peedles and the subject of deserted wives in general.
“A fine-looking man,” allowed Mrs. Peedles, “but weak—weak as water.”
The Signora agreed that unfortunately there did exist such men: 'twas pitiful but true.
“My dear,” continued Mrs. Peedles, “she wasn't even a lady.”
“I won't go so far as to say we never had a difference,” continued Mrs. Peedles, whose object appeared to be an impartial195 statement of the whole case. “There may have been incompatability of temperament, as they say. Myself, I have always been of a playful disposition—frivolous196, some might call me.”
The Signora protested; the O'Kelly declined to listen to such aspersion197 on her character even from Mrs. Peedles herself.
Mrs. Peedles, thus corrected, allowed that maybe frivolous was too sweeping an accusation198: say sportive.
“But a good wife to him I always was,” asserted Mrs. Peedles, with a fine sense of justice; “never flighty, like some of them. I challenge any one to accuse me of having been flighty.”
We felt we should not believe any one who did, and told her so.
Mrs. Peedles, drawing her chair closer to the Signora, assumed a confidential199 attitude. “If they want to go, let 'em go, I always say,” she whispered loudly into the Signora's ear. “Ten to one they'll find they've only jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire. One can always comfort oneself with that.”
There seemed to be confusion in the mind of Mrs. Peedles. Her virtuous sympathies, I gathered, were with the Signora. Mr. O'Kelly's return to Mrs. O'Kelly evidently manifested itself in the light of a shameful200 desertion. Having regard to the fact, patent to all who knew him, that the poor fellow was sacrificing every inclination to stern sense of duty, such view of the matter was rough on him. But philosophers from all ages have agreed that our good deeds are the whips with which Fate punishes us for our bad.
“My dear,” continued Mrs. Peedles, “when Mr. Peedles left me I thought that I should never smile again. Yet here you see me laughing away through life, just as ever. You'll get over it all right.” And Mrs. Peedles wiped away her tears and smiled upon the Signora; upon which the Signora commenced to cry again.
Happily, timely diversion was made at this point by the bursting into the room of Jarman, who upon perceiving Mrs. Peedles, at once gave vent57 to a hoot201, supposed to be expressive202 of Scottish joy, and without a moment's hesitation203 commenced to dance a reel.
My neighbours of the first floor knocked at the door a little while afterwards; and genteelly late arrived Miss Rosina Sellars, coldly gleaming in a decollete but awe-inspiring costume of mingled204 black and scarlet205, out of which her fair, if fleshy, neck and arms shone luxuriant.
We did not go into supper; instead, supper came into us from the restaurant at the corner of the Blackfriars Road. I cannot say that at first it was a festive206 meal. The O'Kelly and the Signora made effort, as in duty bound, to be cheerful, but for awhile were somewhat unsuccessful. The third floor front wasted no time in speech, but ate and drank copiously207. Miss Sellars, retaining her gloves—which was perhaps wise, her hands being her weak point—signalled me out, much to my embarrassment208, as the recipient209 of her most polite conversation. Mrs. Peedles became reminiscent of parties generally. Seeing that most of Mrs. Peedles' former friends and acquaintances were either dead or in more or less trouble, her efforts did not tend to enliven the table. One gathering210, of which the present strangely reminded her, was a funeral, chiefly remarkable from discovery of the romantic fact, late in the proceedings211, that the gentleman in whose honour the whole affair had been organised was not dead at all; but instead, having taken advantage of an error arising out of a railway accident, was at the moment eloping with the wife of his own chief mourner. As Mrs. Peedles explained, and as one could well credit, it had been an awkward position for all present. Nobody had quite known whether to feel glad or sorry—with the exception of the chief mourner, upon whose personal undertaking212 that the company might regard the ceremony as merely postponed, festivities came to an end.
Our prop126 and stay from a convivial213 point of view was Jarman. As a delicate attention to Mrs. Peedles and her costume he sunk his nationality and became for the evening, according to his own declaration, “a braw laddie.” With her—his “sonsie lassie,” so he termed her—he flirted214 in the broadest, if not purest, Scotch215. The O'Kelly for him became “the Laird;” the third floor “Jamie o' the Ilk;” Miss Sellars, “the bonnie wee rose;” myself, “the chiel.” Periods of silence were dispersed216 by suggestions that we should “hoot awa',” Jarman himself setting us the example.
With the clearance217 away of the eatables, making room for the production of a more varied supply of bottles, matters began to mend. Mrs. Peedles became more arch, Jarman's Scotch more striking and extensive, the Lady 'Ortensia's remarks less depressingly genteel, her aitches less accentuated218.
Jarman rose to propose the health of the O'Kelly, coupled with that of the Signora. To the O'Kelly, in a burst of generosity219, Jarman promised our united patronage. To Jarman it appeared that by employing the O'Kelly to defend us whenever we got into trouble with the police, and by recommending him to our friends, a steady income should be assured to him.
The O'Kelly replied feelingly to the effect that Nelson Square, Blackfriars, would ever remain engraved220 upon his memory as the fairest and brightest spot on earth. Personally, nothing would have given him greater pleasure than to die among the dear friends who now surrounded him. But there was such a thing as duty, and he and the Signora had come to the conclusion that true happiness could only be obtained by acting124 according to one's conscience, even if it made one miserable.
Jarman, warming to his work, then proposed the health of Mrs. Peedles, as true-hearted and hard-breathing a lady as ever it had been his privilege to know. Her talent for cheery conversation was familiar to us all, upon it he need not enlarge; all he would say was that personally never did she go out of his room without leaving him more cheerful than when she entered it.
After that—I forget in what—we drank the health of the Lady 'Ortensia. Persons there were—Jarman would not attempt to disguise the fact—who complained that the Lady 'Ortensia was too distant, “too stand-offish.” With such complaint he himself had no sympathy; but tastes differed. If the Lady 'Ortensia were inclined to be exclusive, who should blame her? Everybody knew their own business best. For use in a second floor front he could not honestly recommend the Lady 'Ortensia; it would not be giving her a fair chance, and it would not be giving the second floor a fair chance. But for any gentleman fitting up marble halls, for any one on the lookout221 for a really “toney article,” Jarman would say: Inquire for Miss Rosina Sellars, and see that you get her.
There followed my turn. There had been literary chaps in the past, Jarman admitted so much. Against them he had nothing to say. They had no doubt done their best. But the gentleman whose health Jarman wished the company now to drink had this advantage over them: that they were dead, and he wasn't. Some of this gentleman's work Jarman had read—in manuscript; but that was a distinction purely temporary. He, Jarman, claimed to be no judge of literature, but this he could and would say, it took a good deal to make him miserable, yet this the literary efforts of Mr. Kelver invariably accomplished222.
Mrs. Peedles, speaking without rising, from personal observation in the daytime—which she hoped would not be deemed a liberty; literature, even in manuscript, being, so to speak, public property—found herself in a position to confirm all that Mr. Jarman had remarked. Speaking as one not entirely223 without authority on the subject of literature and the drama, Mrs. Peedles could say that passages she had read had struck her as distinctly not half bad. Some of the love-scenes, in particular, had made her to feel quite a girl again. How he had acquired such knowledge was not for her to say. Cries of “Naughty!” from Jarman, and “Oh, Mr. Kelver, I shall be quite afraid of you,” roguishly from Miss Sellars.
The O'Kelly, who, having abandoned his favourite champagne for less sobering liquor, had since supper-time become rapidly more cheerful, felt sure there was a future before me. That he had not seen any of my work, so he assured me, in no way lessened224 his opinion of it. One thing only would he impress upon me: that the best work was the result of strict attention to virtue. His advice to me was to marry young and be happy.
My persevering225 efforts of the last few months towards the acquisition of convivial habits appeared this evening to be receiving their reward. The O'Kelly's sweet champagne I had drunk with less dislike than hitherto; a white, syrupy sort of stuff, out of a fat and artistic-looking bottle, I had found distinctly grateful to the palate. Dimly the quotation226 about taking things at the flood, and so getting on quickly, floated through my brain, coupled with another one about fortune favouring the bold. It had seemed to me a good occasion to try for the second time in my life a full flavoured cigar. I had selected with the caution of a connoisseur227 one of mottled green complexion from the O'Kelly's largest box. And so far all had gone well. An easy self-confidence, delightful228 by reason of its novelty, had replaced my customary shyness; a sense of lightness—of positive airiness, emanating229 from myself, pervaded230 all things. Tossing off another glass of the champagne, I rose to reply.
Modesty231 in my present mood would have been affectation. To such dear and well-beloved friends I had no hesitation in admitting the truth, that I was a clever fellow—a damned clever fellow. I knew it, they knew it, in a short time everybody would know it. But they need not fear that in the hour of my pride, when it arrived, I should prove ungrateful. Never should I forget their kindness to me, a lonely young man, alone in a lonely—Here the pathos of my own situation overcame me; words seemed weak. “Jarman—” I meant, putting my hand upon his head, to have blessed him for his goodness to me; but he being not exactly where he looked to be, I just missed him, and sat down on the edge of my chair, which was a hard one. I had not intended this to be the end of my speech, by a long one; but Jarman, whispering to me: “Ended at exactly the right moment; shows the born orator,” strong inclination to remain seated, now that I was down seconding his counsel, and the company being clearly satisfied, I decided68 to leave things where they were.
A delightful dreaminess was stealing over me. Everything and everybody appeared to be a long way off, but, whether because of this or in spite of it, exceedingly attractive. Never had I noticed the Signora so bewitching; in a motherly sort of way even the third floor front was good to look upon; Mrs. Peedles I could almost have believed to be the real Flora MacDonald sitting in front of me. But the vision of Miss Rosina Sellars made literally232 my head to swim. Never before had I dared to cast upon female loveliness the satisfying gaze with which I now boldly regarded her every movement. Evidently she noticed it, for she turned away her eyes. I had heard that exceptionally strong-minded people merely by concentrating their will could make other, ordinary people, do just whatever they, the exceptionally strong-minded people, wished. I willed that Miss Rosina Sellars should turn her eyes again towards me. Victory crowned my efforts. Evidently I was one of these exceptionally strong-minded persons. Slowly her eyes came round and met mine with a smile—a helpless, pathetic smile that said, so I read it: “You know no woman can resist you: be merciful!”
Inflamed233 by the brutal28 lust16 of conquest, I suppose I must have willed still further, for the next thing I remember is sitting with Miss Sellars on the sofa, holding her hand, the while the O'Kelly sang a sentimental234 ballad235, only one line of which comes back to me: “For the angels must have told him, and he knows I love him now,” much stress upon the “now.” The others had their backs towards us. Miss Sellars, with a look that pierced my heart, dropped her somewhat large head upon my shoulder, leaving, as I observed the next day, a patch of powder on my coat.
Miss Sellars observed that one of the saddest things in the world was unrequited love.
“Ah, you men, you men,” murmured Miss Sellars; “you're all alike.”
This suggested a personal aspersion on my character. “Not allus,” I murmured.
“You don't know what love is,” said Miss Sellars. “You're not old enough.”
The O'Kelly had passed on to Sullivan's “Sweethearts,” then in its first popularity.
“Oh, love for a year—a week—a day!
But oh for the love that loves al-wa-ays!”
Miss Sellars' languishing237 eyes were fixed upon me; Miss Sellars' red lips pouted238 and twitched239; Miss Sellars' white bosom240 rose and fell. Never, so it seemed to me, had so large an amount of beauty been concentrated in one being.
“Yeserdo,” I said. “I love you.”
I stooped to kiss the red lips, but something was in my way. It turned out to be a cold cigar. Miss Sellars thoughtfully removed it, and threw it away. Our lips met. Her large arms closed about my neck and held me tight.
“Well, I'm sure!” came the voice of Mrs. Peedles, as from afar. “Nice goings on!”
I have vague remembrance of a somewhat heated discussion, in which everybody but myself appeared to be taking extreme interest—of Miss Sellars in her most ladylike and chilling tones defending me against the charge of “being no gentleman,” which Mrs. Peedles was explaining nobody had said I wasn't. The argument seemed to be of the circular order. No gentleman had ever kissed Miss Sellars who had not every right to do so, nor ever would. To kiss Miss Sellars without such right was to declare oneself no gentleman. Miss Sellars appealed to me to clear my character from the aspersion of being no gentleman. I was trying to understand the situation, when Jarman, seizing me somewhat roughly by the arm, suggested my going to bed. Miss Sellars, seizing my other arm, suggested my refusing to go to bed. So far I was with Miss Sellars. I didn't want to go to bed, and said so. My desire to sit up longer was proof positive to Miss Sellars that I was a gentleman, but to no one else. The argument shifted, the question being now as to whether Miss Sellars were a lady. To prove the point it was, according to Miss Sellars, necessary that I should repeat I loved her. I did repeat it, adding, with faint remembrance of my own fiction, that if a life's devotion was likely to be of the slightest further proof, my heart's blood was at her service. This cleared the air, Mrs. Peedles observing that under such circumstances it only remained for her to withdraw everything she had said; to which Miss Sellars replied graciously that she had always known Mrs. Peedles to be a good sort at the bottom.
Nevertheless, gaiety was gone from among us, and for this, in some way I could not understand, I appeared to be responsible. Jarman was distinctly sulky. The O'Kelly, suddenly thinking of the time, went to the door and discovered that the two cabs were waiting. The third floor recollected241 that work had to be finished. I myself felt sleepy.
Our host and hostess departed; Jarman again suggested bed, and this time I agreed with him. After a slight misunderstanding with the door, I found myself upon the stairs. I had never noticed before that they were quite perpendicular242. Adapting myself to the changed conditions, I climbed them with the help of my hands. I accomplished the last flight somewhat quickly, and feeling tired, sat down the moment I was within my own room. Jarman knocked at the door. I told him to come in; but he didn't. It occurred to me that the reason was I was sitting on the floor with my back against the door. The discovery amused me exceedingly and I laughed; and Jarman, baffled, descended243 to his own floor. I found getting into bed a difficulty, owing to the strange behaviour of the room. It spun244 round and round. Now the bed was just in front of me, now it was behind me. I managed at last to catch it before it could get past me, and holding on by the ironwork, frustrated245 its efforts to throw me out again on to the floor.
But it was some time before I went to sleep, and over my intervening experiences I draw a veil.
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1
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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bucolic
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| adj.乡村的；牧羊的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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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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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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tickle
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| v.搔痒，胳肢；使高兴；发痒；n.搔痒，发痒 | |
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cupidity
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| n.贪心，贪财 | |
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gratis
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| adj.免费的 | |
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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38
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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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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warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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42
emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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sanctimonious
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| adj.假装神圣的，假装虔诚的，假装诚实的 | |
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44
delude
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| vt.欺骗；哄骗 | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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47
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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48
decanted
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| v.将（酒等）自瓶中倒入另一容器( decant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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50
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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52
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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53
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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54
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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55
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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56
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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57
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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58
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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59
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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60
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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61
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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62
persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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63
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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64
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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65
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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66
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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67
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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68
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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69
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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70
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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71
hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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73
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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74
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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75
falcon
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| n.隼，猎鹰 | |
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76
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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77
cynosure
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| n.焦点 | |
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78
fortify
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| v.强化防御，为…设防；加强，强化 | |
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79
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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80
creased
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 皱皱巴巴 | |
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81
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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82
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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83
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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84
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
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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86
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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87
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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88
predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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89
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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90
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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91
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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92
forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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93
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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94
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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95
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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96
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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97
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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98
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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99
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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100
jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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101
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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102
bulgy
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| a.膨胀的；凸出的 | |
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103
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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104
furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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106
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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107
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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108
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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109
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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110
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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111
maxims
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| n.格言，座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
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112
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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113
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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114
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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115
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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116
oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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117
porpoise
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| n.鼠海豚 | |
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118
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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119
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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120
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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121
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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122
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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123
enacting
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的现在分词 ) | |
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124
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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125
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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126
prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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127
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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128
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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129
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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130
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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131
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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132
parlance
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| n.说法；语调 | |
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133
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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134
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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135
pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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136
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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137
stockbrokers
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| n.股票经纪人( stockbroker的名词复数 ) | |
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138
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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139
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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140
iceberg
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| n.冰山，流冰，冷冰冰的人 | |
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141
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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142
minced
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| v.切碎( mince的过去式和过去分词 )；剁碎；绞碎；用绞肉机绞（食物，尤指肉） | |
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143
asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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144
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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145
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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146
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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147
strata
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| n.地层（复数）；社会阶层 | |
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148
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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149
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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150
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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151
bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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152
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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153
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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154
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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155
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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156
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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157
conscientiousness
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| 责任心 | |
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158
descant
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| v.详论，絮说；n.高音部 | |
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159
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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160
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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161
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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162
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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163
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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164
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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165
immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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166
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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167
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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168
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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169
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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170
transgression
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| n.违背；犯规；罪过 | |
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171
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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172
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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173
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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174
abjure
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| v.发誓放弃 | |
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175
metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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176
commendable
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| adj.值得称赞的 | |
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177
repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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178
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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179
broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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180
instil
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| v.逐渐灌输 | |
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181
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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182
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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183
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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184
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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185
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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186
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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187
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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188
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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189
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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190
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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191
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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192
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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193
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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194
deterioration
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| n.退化；恶化；变坏 | |
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195
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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196
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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197
aspersion
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| n.诽谤，中伤 | |
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198
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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199
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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200
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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201
hoot
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| n.鸟叫声，汽车的喇叭声； v.使汽车鸣喇叭 | |
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202
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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203
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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204
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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205
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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206
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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207
copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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208
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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209
recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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210
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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211
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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212
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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213
convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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214
flirted
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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215
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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216
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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217
clearance
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| n.净空；许可(证)；清算；清除，清理 | |
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218
accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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219
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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220
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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221
lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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222
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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223
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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224
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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225
persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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226
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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227
connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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228
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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229
emanating
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的现在分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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230
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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231
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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232
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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233
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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234
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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235
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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236
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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237
languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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238
pouted
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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239
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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240
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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241
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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242
perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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243
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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244
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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245
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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