“By Jove, I wonder if he’d lend me some money!” cried the head of the family. “Who’s he been doin’ now?”
Lady Sophia had scarcely explained when they heard the Canon come into the house. He had been out for ten minutes on some errand. This was an occasion upon which Canon Spratte felt that his fellow-creatures were very amiable1. The world was an excellent place where a combination of uprightness and of pious2 ingenuity3 made the way of the virtuous4 not unduly5 hard.
On his way past the dining-room he looked in to glance at his portrait, which Orchardson had painted some fifteen years before. It was an extravagance, but when he had the chance to gratify others the Canon did not count his pence. He had been able to think of no more pleasing surprise for his wife, on the tenth anniversary of their wedding-day, than to give her a not unflattering picture of himself. He observed with satisfaction the strong lines of the hands, the open look of his blue eyes, and the bold expression of his mouth. It was a man in whose veins6 ran a vivacious7 spirit. His whole appearance was so happily self-reliant that even from the painted canvas spectators gained a feeling of exhilaration. Canon Spratte noted8 how well his shapely head, with the abundant fair hair, stood out against the purple background. Above, in the corner, according to his own suggestion, were the arms and the motto of his family: Malo mori quam fœdari.
“Yes, I think he did me justice,” thought the Canon. “I sometimes fancy the hands are a little too large, but that may be only the perspective.” He smiled to his own smiling eyes. “If I’m ever made a bishop9 I shall be painted again. I think it’s a duty one owes one’s children. I shall be painted by Sargent, in full canonicals, and I shall have an amethyst10 ring. It’s absurd that we should habitually11 leave what is indeed part of the insignia of our office to a foreign Church. The English bishops13 have just as much right to the ring of amethyst as the bishops of the Pope. I shall have the arms of the See on the right-hand side and my own arms on the left.”
He had a vivid imagination, and already saw this portrait in the Academy, on the line. It was surrounded by a crowd. Evidently it would be the picture of the year, for he felt himself capable of inspiring the painter with his own vigorous personality. He saw the country cousins and the strenuous14 inhabitants of Suburbia turn to their catalogues, and read: The Right Reverend the Bishop of Barchester. At the private view he saw people, recognizing him from the excellent portrait, point him out to one another. He saw his own little smile of amusement when he stood perchance for a moment in front of it, and the onlookers17 with rapid glance compared the original with the counterfeit18. Already he marked the dashing brushwork and he fancied the painter’s style suited admirably with his peculiar19 characteristics. He liked the shining, stiff folds of black satin, the lawn sleeves, and the delicate lace of the ruffles20, the rich scarlet21 of his hood22. He imagined the attitude of proud command which befitted a Prince of the Church, the fearless poise23 of the head, the firm face and the eagle eye. He would look every inch a bishop.
“How true it is that some are born to greatness!” he muttered. “I shall leave it to the National Portrait Gallery in my will.”
And then, if he survived his brother, he thought with a vainglorious24 tremor25 of the describing tablet: “Theodore, 3rd Earl Spratte of Beachcombe, and Lord Bishop of Barchester.”
His cheeks were flushed and his eyes sparkled, for verily he was drunk with pride. His heart beat so that it was almost painful.
With swinging step he sprang up the stairs and danced into the drawing-room like a merry West Wind. The second Earl Spratte, however, was still in the best of health.
“Ah, my dear brother, I’m delighted to see you,” cried the Canon, and his voice rang like a joyous26 bell.
“For once in a way, Theodore. I was about to ask Sophia if you’d arranged about paddin’ the gaiters yet?”
“Ha, ha, you will have your little joke, Tom.” He had not used this diminutive27 since his brother succeeded to the title, and Lady Sophia stared at him with astonishment28. “We Sprattes have always had a keen sense of humour. And what does the head of my house think of all these matrimonial schemes?”
“I’ve really half a mind to follow suit.”
“Who is the charmer now, Thomas? Does she tread the light fantastic toe in the ballet at the Empire, or does she carol in a Gaiety chorus?”
“I have an idea that your brother Theodore is mildly facetious29 to-day,” said the other gravely to Lady Sophia.
“You must marry money, my boy.”
“I would like a shot if I could. What I object to is marryin’ a wife.”
“One can never get money in this world without some drawback.”
Lord Spratte looked at his brother with a dry smile.
“How green and yellow you’d turn, Theodore, if I did marry!”
“My dear Thomas, there’s nothing that would please me more. You will do me the justice to acknowledge that I have frequently impressed upon you the desirability of marriage. I look upon it as a duty you owe to your family.”
“And has the heir presumptive never in imagination fitted on his handsome head the coronet, nor draped about himself picturesquely31 the ermine robes? Oh, what a humbug32 you are, Theodore!”
“Thomas,” retorted the Canon, “Thomas, how can you say such things! I can honestly say that I have never envied you. I have never allowed my mind to dwell on the possibility of surviving you.”
Lord Spratte gave his brother a sharp look.
“I have led a racketty life, Theodore, and you have taken great care of yourself. There’s every chance that you’ll survive me. By Jupiter, you’ll make things hum then!”
“I do not look upon this as a suitable matter for jesting,” retorted the Canon, with suave33 dignity. “If Providence34 vouchsafes35 to me a longer life, you may be sure I will fulfil the duties of my rank earnestly and to the best of my ability.”
“And what about the bishopric?” asked Lady Sophia.
“Who knows? Who knows?” he cried, walking about the room excitedly. “I have a presentiment36 that it will be offered to me.”
“In that case I have a presentiment that you will accept,” interrupted his brother. “You’re the most ambitious man I’ve ever known.”
“And if I am!” cried the Canon. “Ambition, says the Swan of Avon, is the last infirmity of noble minds. But what is the use of ambition now, when the Church has been wrongfully shorn of its power, and the clergy39 exist hazardously40 by sufferance of the vulgar? I should have lived four centuries ago, when the Church was a power in the land. Now it offers no scope for a man of energy. When the Tudors were kings of England a bishop might rule the country. He might be a great minister of state, holding the destinies of Europe in the hollow of his hand. I’ve come into the world too late. You may laugh at me, Thomas, but I tell you I feel in me the power to do great things. Sometimes I sit in my chair and I can hardly bear my inaction. Good heavens, what is there for me to do—to preach sermons to a fashionable crowd, to preside on committees, to go to dinner-parties in Mayfair. With your opportunities, Tom, I should have been Prime Minister by now, and I’d have made you Archbishop of Canterbury.”
Lady Sophia looked at him, smiling. She admired the mobile mouth and the flashing eyes, as with vehement41 gesture he flung out his words to the indifferent air. His voice rang clear and strong.
“I tell you that I am born with the heart of a crusader,” he exclaimed, striding about the room as though it were a field of battle. “In happier times I would have led the hosts of the Lord to Jerusalem. Bishops then wore coats of steel and they fought with halberd and with sword to gain the Sepulchre of the Lord their Saviour42. I tell you that I cannot look at the portrait of Julius the Pope without thinking that I too have it in me to ride into action on my charger and crush the enemies of the Church. I’ve come into the world too late.”
“Meanwhile you’ve succeeded in capturing for Winnie the best parti of the season. Talk of match-makin’ mammas! They’re nowhere when my brother Theodore takes the field.”
“When I make up my mind to do a thing I do it.”
“Oh, I think I’ve settled him,” said the Canon, with a laugh of disdain46. “What did I tell you, Sophia?”
“My dear Theodore, I have always thought you a clever man,” she answered, calmly.
“I’ve brought you to your knees; I’ve humbled47 your pride at last. Winnie is going to marry Harry49 Wroxham and Lionel is nearly engaged to Gwendolen Durant. What would you say if I told you that I was going to be married too?”
“Are you joking, Theodore?”
“Not in the least. But I’m not going to tell you who it is yet.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised if it were Gwendolen,” mused52 Lady Sophia. “Unless I’m much mistaken she’s a good deal more in love with you than she is with Lionel.”
“Of course one never knows, does one?” laughed the Canon. “On the other hand, it might be Mrs. Fitzherbert.”
“No, I’m sure it isn’t,” replied Lady Sophia, with decision.
“Why?”
“Because she’s a sensible woman and she’d never be such a fool as to have you.”
“Wait and see, then. Wait and see.”
He laughed himself out of the room, and went to his study. Here he laughed again. He had not seen Mrs. Fitzherbert since the ball, for on the following morning she had wired to say that the grave illness of a friend obliged her to go immediately into the country. The Canon had hesitated whether to write a letter; but he was prevented by his dread53 of ridicule54 from making protestations of undying affection, and knew not what else to say. He contented55 himself with sending a telegram:
I await your return with impatience56.—Theodore.
He was dining with her that evening to meet certain persons of note. Since she had not written to postpone57 the party, Mrs. Fitzherbert presumably intended to return to London in the course of the day. He looked forward to the meeting with pleasurable excitement.
Canon Spratte was proud of himself. He had succeeded in all his efforts, and he felt, as men at certain times do, that he was in luck’s way. He did not look upon this success as due to any fortuitous concurrence58 of things, but rather as a testimony59 to his own merit. He was vastly encouraged, and only spoke60 the truth when he said his presentiment was vivid, that Lord Stonehenge would offer him the Bishopric of Barchester. He was on the top of a wave, swimming bravely; and the very forces of the universe conspired61 to land him on an episcopal throne.
“That is how you tell what stuff a man is made of,” he thought, as he tried in vain to read. “The good man has self-reliance.”
He remembered with satisfaction that as soon as he heard of Bishop Andover’s death, he went boldly to the tailor and countermanded62 the trousers he had ordered. It was a small thing, no doubt, but after all it was a clear indication of character.
St. Gregory’s Vicarage stood at the corner of a square. From the study Canon Spratte could see the well-kept lawn of the garden, and the trees, dusty already in the London summer. But they seemed fresh and vernal to his enthusiastic eyes. The air blowing through the open window was very suave. Above, in the blue sky, little white clouds scampered63 hurriedly past, westward64; and their free motion corresponded with his light, confident spirit. They too had the happy power which thrilled through every nerve of his body, and like theirs was the vigorous strength of the blood that hustled65 through his veins. To the careless, who believe in grim chance, it might have seemed an accident that these clouds were travelling straight to Barchester; but Canon Spratte thought that nothing in the world was purposeless. In their direction he saw an obvious and agreeable omen16.
“How good life is!” he murmured. “After all, if we haven’t the scope that our predecessors66 had, we have a great deal. The earth is always fresh and young, full of opportunity to the man who has the courage to take it.”
He saw in fancy the towers and the dark roofs of Barchester. It was an old city seated in a fertile plain, surrounded by rich pasture lands and watered by smiling rivulets67. He knew the pompous68 trees which adorned69 its fields and the meadows bright with buttercups. He loved the quiet streets and the gabled houses. The repose70 was broken only by the gay hurry of market day, when the farmers led in their cattle and their sheep: already he saw the string of horses brought in for sale, with straw plaited in their tails, and the crowd of loungers at the Corn Exchange. Above all, his fancy lingered among the grey stones of the cathedral, with its lofty nave71; and in the close with the ancient elms and the careful, sweet-smelling lawns. He thought of the rich service, the imposing72 procession of the clergy, and the magnificent throne carved by sculptors73 long forgotten, in which himself would sit so proudly.
“Oh, yes, the world is very good!” he cried.
He was so immersed in thought that he did not hear Ponsonby come into the room, and started violently when he heard a voice behind him.
“This letter has just come for you, sir.”
He knew at once that it was from Lord Stonehenge. The certainty came to him with the force of an inspiration, and his heart beat violently.
“Very well,” he said. “Put it on my desk.”
He turned pale, but did not move till the servant was gone. He took it with shaking hands. He was right, for he recognized the official paper. At last! For some time he looked at the envelope, but trembled so much that he could not open it. He grew sick with expectation and his brain throbbed74 as if he would faint. A feeling of thankfulness came into his heart. Now the cup of his desire was filled. He held his head for a moment and breathed deeply, then slowly cut open the envelope. With habitual12 neatness he used a paper-knife.
Dear Canon Spratte,
It is my desire, if it meet your own wishes, to recommend His Majesty75 to appoint you to the Deanery of St. Olphert’s, vacant through the impending76 retirement77 from illness of Dr. Tanner. In so doing, I can assure you I feel great pleasure in being able to mark my appreciation78 of your learning and sound divinity by offering you a position of greater dignity and less work. The duties, I need not tell you, are commanding in their nature; and I feel sure you would be able to perform them with great advantage to the interests of the Church, to which I think the course I am taking will be most beneficial, especially at this critical moment in its history.
I have the honour to be, dear Canon Spratte,
Yours faithfully,
Stonehenge.
St. Gregory’s Vicarage.
The Prime Minister offered him an obscure, insignificant79 deanery in the north of Wales. For an instant Canon Spratte could not understand. It seemed impossible, it seemed preposterous80. He thought it must be a mistake, and carefully read the letter again. The overthrow81 of all his hopes came upon him at the moment of his greatest exultation82, and the blow was greater than he could bear; two scalding tears rose in his eyes, and heavily, painfully, rolled down his cheeks. They fell on the letter and made two little wet smudges.
The disappointment was so great that he could not be angry. He was utterly83 crushed. And then, in the revulsion from his high spirits, he was overwhelmed with despair. He asked pitifully whether he had all along misjudged himself. The Prime Minister did not think him fit for important office but sought to satisfy his claims by an empty honour, such as he might give to a man who, perhaps, had deserved well, but whose powers were now decrepit84. That post of dignity was but a decent grave.
Suddenly, with the vain man’s utter self-abasement, Canon Spratte saw himself as he thought others might see him: mediocre85, pompous, self-assertive, verbose86. He heard the mocking words of the envious87:
“Theodore Spratte is shelved. At all events he’ll be out of harm’s way at St. Olphert’s, and it’s just the sort of thing that’ll suit him—to tyrannize over provincial88 old ladies.”
And others would be astonished and say:
“One would have thought that pushing man would have pushed himself into something better than that!”
Again the Canon thought of all he might have done: and the pictures of the future, like scoffing89 devils, came once more before his mind. He could not help the tears. For a while, leaning over his desk, with his hands pressed to his burning eyes, he surrendered unresisting to his weakness. The tall spires90 and the sombre roofs of Barchester returned to his vivid fancy, and all that he had lost seemed twice as beautiful. The humiliation91 was unbearable92. He hated and despised himself; he was petty and mean; and his pride, his boastfulness, his overbearing spirit, uprose against him in reproach. Who was he thus to have contemned93 his fellows? He had imagined himself clever, wise, and brilliant; and the world had laughed in its sleeve at his presumption94. He blushed now, blushed so that he felt his face burn, at the thought that all this time people had despised him. He had lived in a fool’s paradise, rejoicing in the admiration95 of his fellows; and he had been an object of derision. It had been self-admiration only; and the world had taken him, as did Lord Stonehenge, for the mediocre son of a clever father. Even his brother had told him repeatedly that he was pretentious96 and vulgar, and he thought it only the sneer97 of a man who could not appreciate great qualities. A thousand imps98 danced in his brain, with mockery and with malicious99 gibes100: in every key from shrill101 to hoarse102, he heard their scornful laughter.
“I won’t take it,” he cried, jumping up suddenly. “I’ll remain where I am. I’m strong and young still; I feel as vigorous as if I were twenty. I don’t want their honours.”
But then he hesitated, and sank again, helplessly, into his chair. Was it not his duty to accept the promotion103 which was offered him? Had he a right to refuse? What was he but a servant of God, and might it not be His will that he should go to this deanery? He hated the idea, and feared the cold dulness of St. Olphert’s; but yet, with something in him of English puritanism, the very fact that it was so distasteful, seemed an argument in its favour.
“Am I fit to hold a great London parish?” he asked, despairingly. “I’m growing old. Each year I shall be less active and less versatile104. Ought I not to make way for younger, better men?”
He strove to drive away the thought, but could not. Some voice, the voice of conscience perhaps, told him it was his duty to accept this offer.
“O God, help me,” he cried, broken at length and submissive. “I know not what to do. Guide me and teach me to do Thy will.”
Presently he fell on his knees humbly105 and prayed. Now there was nothing in him of the confident priest or of the proud and self-assertive man; he was but an abject106 penitent107, confessing in broken words, tremulous and halting, his utter weakness.
“O Lord, give me a holy contented frame,” he cried. “Make me to desire nothing but how best to fulfil Thy holy will. Save me from worldly ambitious thoughts. I am weak and cowardly, and my sins have been very great, and I know that I am unfitted for a great position.”
When he rose to his feet, with a sigh he read Stonehenge’s letter for the third time. He took it in his hand and went to Lady Sophia. He felt that from her he would gain help. He was so crushed, so changed, that he needed another’s guidance. For once in his life he could not make up his mind.
But when she saw him, Lady Sophia was seized with astonishment. His spirited face seemed wan37 and lifeless; the lines stood out, and his eyes were very tired. He appeared on a sudden to be an old man. His upright carriage was gone and he walked listlessly, with stooping shoulders.
“Theodore, what on earth’s the matter?” she cried.
He handed her the letter and, in a voice still broken with emotion, said:
“Stonehenge doesn’t think I’m fit to be a bishop. He’s offered me a Welsh deanery.”
“But you won’t accept it?”
He bowed his head, looking at her with an appeal that was almost childlike.
“I’m not sure whether I have the right to refuse.”
“What does he mean by saying that the duties are commanding in their nature?”
“He means nothing,” answered the Canon, shrugging his shoulders scornfully. “He’s merely gilding108 the pill with fine phrases. Oh, Sophia, I don’t want to go. I don’t want to bury myself in that inglorious idleness. I feel in me the power to do so much more, and St. Olphert’s offers me nothing. It’s a sleepy, sordid109 place. I might as well be buried alive. I don’t want to leave London.”
His voice was so pitiful that Lady Sophia was touched. She saw that he wanted her to persuade him to stay in town, and yet his conscience troubled him.
“I’m only a servant of the Church,” he said. “I don’t know that I have the right to refuse to go where I am sent. Perhaps he’s not far wrong in thinking that it’s all I’m good for. Oh, Sophia, I’m so unhappy!”
She realized how much it meant for that bold spirit thus to humble48 itself. He paid a heavy price for his vanity. He was like a child in her hands, needing consolation110 and support. She began to speak to him gently. She suggested that the offer of this deanery signified only that Lord Stonehenge, feeling he owed something to the son of the late Lord Chancellor111, had been unable on account of other claims to give him the bishopric. From the observation of long years she had learnt on what points Theodore most prided himself, (in the past this knowledge had been used to give little admonishing112 stabs,) and now she took them one by one. She appealed skilfully113 to his prepossessions. With well-directed flattery, calling to his mind past triumphs, and compliments paid him by the great ones of the earth, she caused him little by little to gather courage. Presently she saw the hopeless expression of the mouth give way to a smile of pleasure, and a new confidence came into his eyes. His very back was straightened. In the new uprightness with which he held himself, she perceived that her subtle words were taking due effect. At last she reminded him of his work at St. Gregory’s.
“After all, you’re a figure in London,” she said. “You have power and influence. For my part I have wondered that you contemplated114 leaving it for an obscure country town like Barchester. I shouldn’t have been at all surprised if you’d refused the bishopric.”
He breathed more freely, and with his quick and happy optimism began already to see things more genially115.
“Besides, we Sprattes are somebody in the world,” concluded Lady Sophia, with a smile, the faint irony116 of which he did not see. “I don’t think you would show a proper spirit if you allowed yourself to be trampled117 on.”
“Ah, Sophia, I knew that at the bottom of your heart you were as proud of your stock as I. You’re quite right. I owe it to my family as well as to myself not to allow them to thrust me into obscurity. I shall refuse the deanery, Sophia; and Lord Stonehenge——”
“Can go to the devil,” she added, quietly.
“Sophia, I thank you. It is not right that I should say such things, but you have entirely119 expressed my sentiments.”
“Why don’t you sit down and write the letter at once?”
Without answering, the Canon seated himself, and presently showed to Lady Sophia, for her approval, the following reply.
Dear Lord Stonehenge,
I have weighed your very considerate proposal most anxiously and have given full weight to what you urge. I fully38 appreciate the kind motive120 which offered me the opportunity of removing to a position both of leisure and of dignity. I am sure you will not think that I have lightly set aside the offer made me; but I am doubtful whether my health would stand the asperities121 of a Welsh climate. And I have to consider that a very great assistance to me in the performance of my present duties is derived122 from the complete knowledge of my work in London. I fear that I might find the distant and untried labours of St. Olphert’s less congenial. And I feel that without some very strong counter-balancing reason, it is not desirable that I should leave plans which I have begun, but scarcely matured, in the Metropolis123.
Believe me to be, with very grateful thanks, dear Lord Stonehenge,
Your faithful and obedient servant,
Theodore Spratte
Lady Sophia smiled when she read that last sentence in which he wisely left himself an escape, whereby he might with dignity abandon London, if a bishopric in the future were offered to him. Obviously the comfortable hope had returned that in the end his merits would receive their just reward. She gave back the letter.
“I think it will do capitally,” she said. “Now, if I were you, I’d go out for a stroll.”
“So I will, Sophia,” he replied. “I shall never forget your encouragement. I confess I was very much cast down.”
Much to her surprise he kissed her affectionately, and then said:
“As I have nowhere particular to go, I shall just walk along to Savile Row, and order two pairs of trousers.”
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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unduly
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veins
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vivacious
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noted
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bishop
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amethyst
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habitually
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habitual
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bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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strenuous
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rev
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onlookers
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counterfeit
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peculiar
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ruffles
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scarlet
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poise
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vainglorious
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tremor
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joyous
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diminutive
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astonishment
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facetious
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jovially
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picturesquely
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suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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34
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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35
vouchsafes
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的第三人称单数 )；允诺 | |
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36
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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37
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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38
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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39
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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40
hazardously
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| adv.冒险地，有危险地 | |
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41
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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42
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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43
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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44
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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45
socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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46
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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47
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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48
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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49
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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50
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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51
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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53
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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54
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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55
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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56
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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57
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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58
concurrence
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| n.同意；并发 | |
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59
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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60
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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61
conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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62
countermanded
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| v.取消（命令），撤回( countermand的过去分词 ) | |
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63
scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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65
hustled
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| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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66
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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67
rivulets
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| n.小河，小溪( rivulet的名词复数 ) | |
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68
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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69
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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70
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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71
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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72
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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sculptors
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| 雕刻家，雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 )； [天]玉夫座 | |
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74
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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75
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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76
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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77
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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78
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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79
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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80
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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81
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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82
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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83
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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84
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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85
mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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86
verbose
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| adj.用字多的；冗长的；累赘的 | |
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87
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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88
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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89
scoffing
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| n. 嘲笑, 笑柄, 愚弄 v. 嘲笑, 嘲弄, 愚弄, 狼吞虎咽 | |
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90
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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91
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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92
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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93
contemned
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| v.侮辱，蔑视( contemn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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95
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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96
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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97
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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98
imps
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| n.（故事中的）小恶魔( imp的名词复数 )；小魔鬼；小淘气；顽童 | |
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99
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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100
gibes
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| vi.嘲笑，嘲弄（gibe的第三人称单数形式） | |
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101
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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102
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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103
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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104
versatile
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| adj.通用的，万用的；多才多艺的，多方面的 | |
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105
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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106
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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107
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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108
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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109
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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110
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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111
chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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112
admonishing
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| v.劝告( admonish的现在分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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113
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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114
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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115
genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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116
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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117
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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118
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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119
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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120
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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121
asperities
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| n.粗暴( asperity的名词复数 )；（表面的）粗糙；（环境的）艰苦；严寒的天气 | |
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122
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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123
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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