for every visible arc in the wanderer’s orbit; and the narrator of
human actions, if he did his work with the same completeness, would
have to thread the hidden pathways of feeling and thought which lead
up to every moment of action, and to those moments of intense
suffering which take the quality of action—like the cry of
Deronda’s circumstances, indeed, had been exceptional. One moment had been burned into his life as its chief epoch7—a moment full of July sunshine and large pink roses shedding their last petals8 on a grassy9 court enclosed on three sides by a gothic cloister10. Imagine him in such a scene: a boy of thirteen, stretched prone11 on the grass where it was in shadow, his curly head propped13 on his arms over a book, while his tutor, also reading, sat on a camp-stool under shelter. Deronda’s book was Sismondi’s History of the Italian Republics; the lad had a passion for history, eager to know how time had been filled up since the flood, and how things were carried on in the dull periods. Suddenly he let down his left arm and looked at his tutor, saying in purest boyish tones,
The tutor, an able young Scotchman, who acted as Sir Hugo Mallinger’s secretary, roused rather unwillingly16 from his political economy, answered with the clear-cut emphatic17 chant which makes a truth doubly telling in Scotch15 utterance18,
“Their own children were called nephews.”
“Why?” said Deronda.
“It was just for the propriety19 of the thing; because, as you know very well, priests don’t marry, and the children were illegitimate.”
Mr. Fraser, thrusting out his lower lip and making his chant of the last word the more emphatic for a little impatience20 at being interrupted, had already turned his eyes on his book again, while Deronda, as if something had stung him, started up in a sitting attitude with his back to the tutor.
He had always called Sir Hugo Mallinger his uncle, and when it once occurred to him to ask about his father and mother, the baronet had answered, “You lost your father and mother when you were quite a little one; that is why I take care of you.” Daniel then straining to discern something in that early twilight21, had a dim sense of having been kissed very much, and surrounded by thin, cloudy, scented22 drapery, till his fingers caught in something hard, which hurt him, and he began to cry. Every other memory he had was of the little world in which he still lived. And at that time he did not mind about learning more, for he was too fond of Sir Hugo to be sorry for the loss of unknown parents. Life was very delightful23 to the lad, with an uncle who was always indulgent and cheerful—a fine man in the bright noon of life, whom Daniel thought absolutely perfect, and whose place was one of the finest in England, at once historical, romantic, and home-like: a picturesque24 architectural outgrowth from an abbey, which had still remnants of the old monastic trunk. Diplow lay in another county, and was a comparatively landless place which had come into the family from a rich lawyer on the female side who wore the perruque of the restoration; whereas the Mallingers had the grant of Monk’s Topping under Henry the Eighth, and ages before had held the neighboring lands of King’s Topping, tracing indeed their origin to a certain Hugues le Malingre, who came in with the Conqueror—and also apparently25 with a sickly complexion26 which had been happily corrected in his descendants. Two rows of these descendants, direct and collateral27, females of the male line, and males of the female, looked down in the gallery over the cloisters28 on the nephew Daniel as he walked there: men in armor with pointed29 beards and arched eyebrows30, pinched ladies in hoops31 and ruffs with no face to speak of; grave-looking men in black velvet32 and stuffed hips33, and fair, frightened women holding little boys by the hand; smiling politicians in magnificent perruques, and ladies of the prize-animal kind, with rosebud34 mouths and full eyelids35, according to Lely; then a generation whose faces were revised and embellished36 in the taste of Kneller; and so on through refined editions of the family types in the time of Reynolds and Romney, till the line ended with Sir Hugo and his younger brother Henleigh. This last had married Miss Grandcourt, and taken her name along with her estates, thus making a junction37 between two equally old families, impaling38 the three Saracens’ heads proper and three bezants of the one with the tower and falcons39 argent of the other, and, as it happened, uniting their highest advantages in the prospects40 of that Henleigh Mallinger Grandcourt who is at present more of an acquaintance to us than either Sir Hugo or his nephew Daniel Deronda.
In Sir Hugo’s youthful portrait with rolled collar and high cravat43, Sir Thomas Lawrence had done justice to the agreeable alacrity44 of expression and sanguine45 temperament46 still to be seen in the original, but had done something more than justice in slightly lengthening47 the nose, which was in reality shorter than might have been expected in a Mallinger. Happily the appropriate nose of the family reappeared in his younger brother, and was to be seen in all its refined regularity48 in his nephew Mallinger Grandcourt. But in the nephew Daniel Deronda the family faces of various types, seen on the walls of the gallery, found no reflex. Still he was handsomer than any of them, and when he was thirteen might have served as model for any painter who wanted to image the most memorable49 of boys: you could hardly have seen his face thoroughly50 meeting yours without believing that human creatures had done nobly in times past, and might do more nobly in time to come. The finest childlike faces have this consecrating51 power, and make us shudder52 anew at all the grossness and basely-wrought53 griefs of the world, lest they should enter here and defile54.
But at this moment on the grass among the rose-petals, Daniel Deronda was making a first acquaintance with those griefs. A new idea had entered his mind, and was beginning to change the aspect of his habitual55 feelings as happy careless voyagers are changed with the sky suddenly threatened and the thought of danger arises. He sat perfectly56 still with his back to the tutor, while his face expressed rapid inward transition. The deep blush, which had come when he first started up, gradually subsided57; but his features kept that indescribable look of subdued58 activity which often accompanies a new mental survey of familiar facts. He had not lived with other boys, and his mind showed the same blending of child’s ignorance with surprising knowledge which is oftener seen in bright girls. Having read Shakespeare as well as a great deal of history, he could have talked with the wisdom of a bookish child about men who were born out of wedlock59 and were held unfortunate in consequence, being under disadvantages which required them to be a sort of heroes if they were to work themselves up to an equal standing60 with their legally born brothers. But he had never brought such knowledge into any association with his own lot, which had been too easy for him ever to think about it—until this moment when there had darted61 into his mind with the magic of quick comparison, the possibility that here was the secret of his own birth, and that the man whom he called uncle was really his father. Some children, even younger than Daniel, have known the first arrival of care, like an ominous62 irremovable guest in their tender lives, on the discovery that their parents, whom they had imagined able to buy everything, were poor and in hard money troubles. Daniel felt the presence of a new guest who seemed to come with an enigmatic veiled face, and to carry dimly-conjectured, dreaded64 revelations. The ardor66 which he had given to the imaginary world in his books suddenly rushed toward his own history and spent its pictorial67 energy there, explaining what he knew, representing the unknown. The uncle whom he loved very dearly took the aspect of a father who held secrets about him—who had done him a wrong—yes, a wrong: and what had become of his mother, for whom he must have been taken away?—Secrets about which he, Daniel, could never inquire; for to speak or to be spoken to about these new thoughts seemed like falling flakes69 of fire to his imagination. Those who have known an impassioned childhood will understand this dread65 of utterance about any shame connected with their parents. The impetuous advent70 of new images took possession of him with the force of fact for the first time told, and left him no immediate71 power for the reflection that he might be trembling at a fiction of his own. The terrible sense of collision between a strong rush of feeling and the dread of its betrayal, found relief at length in big slow tears, which fell without restraint until the voice of Mr. Fraser was heard saying:
Daniel immediately moved the book without turning round, and after holding it before him for an instant, rose with it and walked away into the open grounds, where he could dry his tears unobserved. The first shock of suggestion past, he could remember that he had no certainty how things really had been, and that he had been making conjectures73 about his own history, as he had often made stories about Pericles or Columbus, just to fill up the blanks before they became famous. Only there came back certain facts which had an obstinate74 reality, almost like the fragments of a bridge, telling you unmistakably how the arches lay. And again there came a mood in which his conjectures seemed like a doubt of religion, to be banished75 as an offense76, and a mean prying77 after what he was not meant to know; for there was hardly a delicacy78 of feeling this lad was not capable of. But the summing-up of all his fluctuating experience at this epoch was, that a secret impression had come to him which had given him something like a new sense in relation to all the elements of his life. And the idea that others probably knew things concerning which they did not choose to mention, set up in him a premature79 reserve which helped to intensify80 his inward experience. His ears open now to words which before that July day would have passed by him unnoted; and round every trivial incident which imagination could connect with his suspicions, a newly-roused set of feelings were ready to cluster themselves.
One such incident a month later wrought itself deeply into his life. Daniel had not only one of those thrilling boy voices which seem to bring an idyllic81 heaven and earth before our eyes, but a fine musical instinct, and had early made out accompaniments for himself on the piano, while he sang from memory. Since then he had had some teaching, and Sir Hugo, who delighted in the boy, used to ask for his music in the presence of guests. One morning after he had been singing “Sweet Echo” before a small party of gentlemen whom the rain had kept in the house, the baronet, passing from a smiling remark to his next neighbor said:
“Come here, Dan!”
The boy came forward with unusual reluctance82. He wore an embroidered83 holland blouse which set off the rich coloring of his head and throat, and the resistant84 gravity about his mouth and eyes as he was being smiled upon, made their beauty the more impressive. Every one was admiring him.
“What do you say to being a great singer? Should you like to be adored by the world and take the house by storm, like Mario and Tamberlik?”
Daniel reddened instantaneously, but there was a just perceptible interval85 before he answered with angry decision,
“No; I should hate it!”
“Well, well, well!” said Sir Hugo, with surprised kindliness86 intended to be soothing87. But Daniel turned away quickly, left the room, and going to his own chamber88 threw himself on the broad window-sill, which was a favorite retreat of his when he had nothing particular to do. Here he could see the rain gradually subsiding89 with gleams through the parting clouds which lit up a great reach of the park, where the old oaks stood apart from each other, and the bordering wood was pierced with a green glade90 which met the eastern sky. This was a scene which had always been part of his home—part of the dignified91 ease which had been a matter of course in his life. And his ardent92 clinging nature had appropriated it all with affection. He knew a great deal of what it was to be a gentleman by inheritance, and without thinking much about himself—for he was a boy of active perceptions and easily forgot his own existence in that of Robert Bruce—he had never supposed that he could be shut out from such a lot, or have a very different part in the world from that of the uncle who petted him. It is possible (though not greatly believed in at present) to be fond of poverty and take it for a bride, to prefer scoured93 deal, red quarries94 and whitewash95 for one’s private surroundings, to delight in no splendor96 but what has open doors for the whole nation, and to glory in having no privileges except such as nature insists on; and noblemen have been known to run away from elaborate ease and the option of idleness, that they might bind98 themselves for small pay to hard-handed labor97. But Daniel’s tastes were altogether in keeping with his nurture99: his disposition100 was one in which everyday scenes and habits beget101 not ennui102 or rebellion, but delight, affection, aptitudes103; and now the lad had been stung to the quick by the idea that his uncle—perhaps his father—thought of a career for him which was totally unlike his own, and which he knew very well was not thought of among possible destinations for the sons of English gentlemen. He had often stayed in London with Sir Hugo, who to indulge the boy’s ear had carried him to the opera to hear the great tenors105, so that the image of a singer taking the house by storm was very vivid to him; but now, spite of his musical gift, he set himself bitterly against the notion of being dressed up to sing before all those fine people, who would not care about him except as a wonderful toy. That Sir Hugo should have thought of him in that position for a moment, seemed to Daniel an unmistakable proof that there was something about his birth which threw him out from the class of gentlemen to which the baronet belonged. Would it ever be mentioned to him? Would the time come when his uncle would tell him everything? He shrank from the prospect41: in his imagination he preferred ignorance. If his father had been wicked—Daniel inwardly used strong words, for he was feeling the injury done him as a maimed boy feels the crushed limb which for others is merely reckoned in an average of accidents—if his father had done any wrong, he wished it might never be spoken of to him: it was already a cutting thought that such knowledge might be in other minds. Was it in Mr. Fraser’s? probably not, else he would not have spoken in that way about the pope’s nephews. Daniel fancied, as older people do, that every one else’s consciousness was as active as his own on a matter which was vital to him. Did Turvey the valet know?—and old Mrs. French the housekeeper106?—and Banks the bailiff, with whom he had ridden about the farms on his pony107?—And now there came back the recollection of a day some years before when he was drinking Mrs. Banks’s whey, and Banks said to his wife with a wink108 and a cunning laugh, “He features the mother, eh?” At that time little Daniel had merely thought that Banks made a silly face, as the common farming men often did, laughing at what was not laughable; and he rather resented being winked109 at and talked of as if he did not understand everything. But now that small incident became information: it was to be reasoned on. How could he be like his mother and not like his father? His mother must have been a Mallinger, if Sir Hugo were his uncle. But no! His father might have been Sir Hugo’s brother and have changed his name, as Mr. Henleigh Mallinger did when he married Miss Grandcourt. But then, why had he never heard Sir Hugo speak of his brother Deronda, as he spoke68 of his brother Grandcourt? Daniel had never before cared about the family tree—only about that ancestor who had killed three Saracens in one encounter. But now his mind turned to a cabinet of estate-maps in the library, where he had once seen an illuminated110 parchment hanging out, that Sir Hugo said was the family tree. The phrase was new and odd to him—he was a little fellow then—hardly more than half his present age—and he gave it no precise meaning. He knew more now and wished that he could examine that parchment. He imagined that the cabinet was always locked, and longed to try it. But here he checked himself. He might be seen: and he would never bring himself near even a silent admission of the sore that had opened in him.
It is in such experiences of a boy or girlhood, while elders are debating whether most education lies in science or literature, that the main lines of character are often laid down. If Daniel had been of a less ardently111 affectionate nature, the reserve about himself and the supposition that others had something to his disadvantage in their minds, might have turned into a hard, proud antagonism112. But inborn113 lovingness was strong enough to keep itself level with resentment114. There was hardly any creature in his habitual world that he was not fond of; teasing them occasionally, of course—all except his uncle, or “Nunc,” as Sir Hugo had taught him to say; for the baronet was the reverse of a strait-laced man, and left his dignity to take care of itself. Him Daniel loved in that deep-rooted filial way which makes children always the happier for being in the same room with father or mother, though their occupations may be quite apart. Sir Hugo’s watch-chain and seals, his handwriting, his mode of smoking and of talking to his dogs and horses, had all a rightness and charm about them to the boy which went along with the happiness of morning and breakfast time. That Sir Hugo had always been a Whig, made Tories and Radicals115 equally opponents of the truest and best; and the books he had written were all seen under the same consecration116 of loving belief which differenced what was his from what was not his, in spite of general resemblance. Those writings were various, from volumes of travel in the brilliant style, to articles on things in general, and pamphlets on political crises; but to Daniel they were alike in having an unquestionable rightness by which other people’s information could be tested.
Who cannot imagine the bitterness of a first suspicion that something in this object of complete love was not quite right? Children demand that their heroes should be fleckless, and easily believe them so: perhaps a first discovery to the contrary is hardly a less revolutionary shock to a passionate117 child than the threatened downfall of habitual beliefs which makes the world seem to totter118 for us in maturer life.
But some time after this renewal119 of Daniel’s agitation120 it appeared that Sir Hugo must have been making a merely playful experiment in his question about the singing. He sent for Daniel into the library, and looking up from his writing as the boy entered threw himself sideways in his armchair. “Ah, Dan!” he said kindly121, drawing one of the old embroidered stools close to him. “Come and sit down here.”
Daniel obeyed, and Sir Hugo put a gentle hand on his shoulder, looking at him affectionately.
“What is it, my boy? Have you heard anything that has put you out of spirits lately?”
Daniel was determined122 not to let the tears come, but he could not speak.
“All changes are painful when people have been happy, you know,” said Sir Hugo, lifting his hand from the boy’s shoulder to his dark curls and rubbing them gently. “You can’t be educated exactly as I wish you to be without our parting. And I think you will find a great deal to like at school.”
This was not what Daniel expected, and was so far a relief, which gave him spirit to answer,
“Am I to go to school?”
“Yes, I mean you to go to Eton. I wish you to have the education of an English gentleman; and for that it is necessary that you should go to a public school in preparation for the university: Cambridge I mean you to go to; it was my own university.”
Daniel’s color came and went.
“What do you say, Sirrah?” said Sir Hugo, smiling.
“I should like to be a gentleman,” said Daniel, with firm distinctness, “and go to school, if that is what a gentleman’s son must do.”
Sir Hugo watched him silently for a few moments, thinking he understood now why the lad had seemed angry at the notion of becoming a singer. Then he said tenderly,
“And so you won’t mind about leaving your old Nunc?”
“Yes, I shall,” said Daniel, clasping Sir Hugo’s caressing123 arm with both his hands. “But sha’n’t I come home and be with you in the holidays?”
“Oh yes, generally,” said Sir Hugo. “But now I mean you to go at once to a new tutor, to break the change for you before you go to Eton.”
After this interview Daniel’s spirit rose again. He was meant to be a gentleman, and in some unaccountable way it might be that his conjectures were all wrong. The very keenness of the lad taught him to find comfort in his ignorance. While he was busying his mind in the construction of possibilities, it became plain to him that there must be possibilities of which he knew nothing. He left off brooding, young joy and the spirit of adventure not being easily quenched124 within him, and in the interval before his going away he sang about the house, danced among the old servants, making them parting gifts, and insisted many times to the groom125 on the care that was to be taken of the black pony.
“Do you think I shall know much less than the other boys, Mr. Fraser?” said Daniel. It was his bent to think that every stranger would be surprised at his ignorance.
“There are dunces to be found everywhere,” said the judicious126 Fraser. “You’ll not be the biggest; but you’ve not the makings of a Porson in you, or a Leibnitz either.”
“I don’t want to be a Porson or a Leibnitz,” said Daniel. “I would rather be a greater leader, like Pericles or Washington.”
“Ay, ay; you’ve a notion they did with little parsing127, and less algebra,” said Fraser. But in reality he thought his pupil a remarkable128 lad, to whom one thing was as easy as another, if he had only a mind to it.
Things went on very well with Daniel in his new world, except that a boy with whom he was at once inclined to strike up a close friendship talked to him a great deal about his home and parents, and seemed to expect a like expansiveness in return. Daniel immediately shrank into reserve, and this experience remained a check on his naturally strong bent toward the formation of intimate friendship. Every one, his tutor included, set him down as a reserved boy, though he was so good-humored and unassuming, as well as quick, both at study and sport, that nobody called his reserve disagreeable. Certainly his face had a great deal to do with that favorable interpretation129; but in this instance the beauty of the closed lips told no falsehood.
A surprise that came to him before his first vacation strengthened the silent consciousness of a grief within, which might be compared in some ways with Byron’s susceptibility about his deformed130 foot. Sir Hugo wrote word that he was married to Miss Raymond, a sweet lady, whom Daniel must remember having seen. The event would make no difference about his spending the vacation at the Abbey; he would find Lady Mallinger a new friend whom he would be sure to love—and much more to the usual effect when a man, having done something agreeable to himself, is disposed to congratulate others on his own good fortune, and the deducible satisfactoriness of events in general.
Let Sir Hugo be partly excused until the grounds of his action can be more fully131 known. The mistakes in his behavior to Deronda were due to that dullness toward what may be going on in other minds, especially the minds of children, which is among the commonest deficiencies, even in good-natured men like him, when life has been generally easy to themselves, and their energies have been quietly spent in feeling gratified. No one was better aware than he that Daniel was generally suspected to be his own son. But he was pleased with that suspicion; and his imagination had never once been troubled with the way in which the boy himself might be affected132, either then or in the future, by the enigmatic aspect of his circumstances. He was as fond of him as could be, and meant the best by him. And, considering the lightness with which the preparation of young lives seem to lie on respectable consciences, Sir Hugo Mallinger can hardly be held open to exceptional reproach. He had been a bachelor till he was five-and-forty, had always been regarded as a fascinating man of elegant tastes; what could be more natural, even according to the index of language, than that he should have a beautiful boy like the little Deronda to take care of? The mother might even, perhaps, be in the great world—met with in Sir Hugo’s residence abroad. The only person to feel any objection was the boy himself, who could not have been consulted. And the boy’s objections had never been dreamed of by anybody but himself.
By the time Deronda was ready to go to Cambridge, Lady Mallinger had already three daughters—charming babies, all three, but whose sex was announced as a melancholy133 alternative, the offspring desired being a son; if Sir Hugo had no son the succession must go to his nephew, Mallinger Grandcourt. Daniel no longer held a wavering opinion about his own birth. His fuller knowledge had tended to convince him that Sir Hugo was his father, and he conceived that the baronet, since he never approached a communication on the subject, wished him to have a tacit understanding of the fact, and to accept in silence what would be generally considered more than the due love and nurture. Sir Hugo’s marriage might certainly have been felt as a new ground of resentment by some youths in Deronda’s position, and the timid Lady Mallinger with her fast-coming little ones might have been images to scowl134 at, as likely to divert much that was disposable in the feelings and possessions of the baronet from one who felt his own claim to be prior. But hatred135 of innocent human obstacles was a form of moral stupidity not in Deronda’s grain; even the indignation which had long mingled136 itself with his affection for Sir Hugo took the quality of pain rather than of temper; and as his mind ripened137 to the idea of tolerance138 toward error, he habitually139 liked the idea with his own silent grievances140.
The sense of an entailed141 disadvantage—the deformed foot doubtfully hidden by the shoe, makes a restlessly active spiritual yeast142, and easily turns a self-centered, unloving nature into an Ishmaelite. But in the rarer sort, who presently see their own frustrated143 claim as one among a myriad144, the inexorable sorrow takes the form of fellowship and makes the imagination tender. Deronda’s early-weakened susceptibility, charged at first with ready indignation and resistant pride, had raised in him a premature reflection on certain questions of life; it had given a bias145 to his conscience, a sympathy with certain ills, and a tension of resolve in certain directions, who marked him off from other youths much more than any talents he possessed146.
One day near the end of the long vacation, when he had been making a tour in the Rhineland with his Eton tutor, and was come for a farewell stay at the Abbey before going to Cambridge, he said to Sir Hugo,
“What do you intend me to be, sir?” They were in the library, and it was the fresh morning. Sir Hugo had called him in to read a letter from a Cambridge Don who was to be interested in him; and since the baronet wore an air at once business-like and leisurely147, the moment seemed propitious148 for entering on a grave subject which had never yet been thoroughly discussed.
“Whatever your inclination149 leads you to, my boy. I thought it right to give you the option of the army, but you shut the door on that, and I was glad. I don’t expect you to choose just yet—by-and-by, when you have looked about you a little more and tried your mettle150 among older men. The university has a good wide opening into the forum151. There are prizes to be won, and a bit of good fortune often gives the turn to a man’s taste. From what I see and hear, I should think you can take up anything you like. You are in the deeper water with your classics than I ever got into, and if you are rather sick of that swimming, Cambridge is the place where you can go into mathematics with a will, and disport152 yourself on the dry sand as much as you like. I floundered along like a carp.”
“I suppose money will make some difference, sir,” said Daniel blushing. “I shall have to keep myself by-and-by.”
“Not exactly. I recommend you not to be extravagant—yes, yes, I know—you are not inclined to that—but you need not take up anything against the grain. You will have a bachelor’s income—enough for you to look about with. Perhaps I had better tell you that you may consider yourself secure of seven hundred a year. You might make yourself a barrister—be a writer—take up politics. I confess that is what would please me best. I should like to have you at my elbow and pulling with me.”
Deronda looked embarrassed. He felt that he ought to make some sign of gratitude153, but other feelings clogged154 his tongue. A moment was passing by in which a question about his birth was throbbing155 within him, and yet it seemed more impossible than ever that the question should find vent—more impossible than ever that he could hear certain things from Sir Hugo’s lips. The liberal way in which he was dealt with was the more striking because the baronet had of late cared particularly for money, and for making the utmost of his life-interest in the estate by way of providing for his daughters; and as all this flashed through Daniel’s mind it was momentarily within his imagination that the provision for him might come in some way from his mother. But such vaporous conjecture63 passed away as quickly as it came.
Sir Hugo appeared not to notice anything peculiar156 in Daniel’s manner, and presently went on with his usual chatty liveliness.
“I am glad you have done some good reading outside your classics, and have got a grip of French and German. The truth is, unless a man can get the prestige and income of a Don and write donnish books, it’s hardly worth while for him to make a Greek and Latin machine of himself and be able to spin you out pages of the Greek dramatists at any verse you’ll give him as a cue. That’s all very fine, but in practical life nobody does give you the cue for pages of Greek. In fact, it’s a nicety of conversation which I would have you attend to—much quotation157 of any sort, even in English is bad. It tends to choke ordinary remark. One couldn’t carry on life comfortably without a little blindness to the fact that everything had been said better than we can put it ourselves. But talking of Dons, I have seen Dons make a capital figure in society; and occasionally he can shoot you down a cart-load of learning in the right place, which will tell in politics. Such men are wanted; and if you have any turn for being a Don, I say nothing against it.”
“I think there’s not much chance of that. Quicksett and Puller are both stronger than I am. I hope you will not be much disappointed if I don’t come out with high honors.”
“No, no. I should like you to do yourself credit, but for God’s sake don’t come out as a superior expensive kind of idiot, like young Brecon, who got a Double First, and has been learning to knit braces158 ever since. What I wish you to get is a passport in life. I don’t go against our university system: we want a little disinterested159 culture to make head against cotton and capital, especially in the House. My Greek has all evaporated; if I had to construe160 a verse on a sudden, I should get an apoplectic161 fit. But it formed my taste. I dare say my English is the better for it.”
On this point Daniel kept a respectful silence. The enthusiastic belief in Sir Hugo’s writings as a standard, and in the Whigs as the chosen race among politicians, had gradually vanished along with the seraphic boy’s face. He had not been the hardest of workers at Eton. Though some kinds of study and reading came as easily as boating to him, he was not of the material that usually makes the first-rate Eton scholar. There had sprung up in him a meditative162 yearning163 after wide knowledge which is likely always to abate164 ardor in the fight for prize acquirement in narrow tracks. Happily he was modest, and took any second-rateness in himself simply as a fact, not as a marvel165 necessarily to be accounted for by a superiority. Still, Mr. Fraser’s high opinion of the lad had not been altogether belied166 by the youth: Daniel had the stamp of rarity in a subdued fervor167 of sympathy, an activity of imagination on behalf of others which did not show itself effusively168, but was continually seen in acts of considerateness that struck his companions as moral eccentricity169. “Deronda would have been first-rate if he had had more ambition,” was a frequent remark about him. But how could a fellow push his way properly when he objected to swop for his own advantage, knocked under by choice when he was within an inch of victory, and, unlike the great Clive, would rather be the calf170 than the butcher? It was a mistake, however, to suppose that Deronda had not his share of ambition. We know he had suffered keenly from the belief that there was a tinge171 of dishonor in his lot; but there are some cases, and his was one of them, in which the sense of injury breeds—not the will to inflict172 injuries and climb over them as a ladder, but, a hatred of all injury. He had his flashes of fierceness and could hit out upon occasion, but the occasions were not always what might have been expected. For in what related to himself his resentful impulses had been early checked by a mastering affectionateness. Love has a habit of saying “Never mind” to angry self, who, sitting down for the nonce in the lower place, by-and-by gets used to it. So it was that as Deronda approached manhood his feeling for Sir Hugo, while it was getting more and more mixed with criticism, was gaining in that sort of allowance which reconciles criticism with tenderness. The dear old beautiful home and everything within it, Lady Mallinger and her little ones included, were consecrated173 for the youth as they had been for the boy—only with a certain difference of light on the objects. The altarpiece was no longer miraculously174 perfect, painted under infallible guidance, but the human hand discerned in the work was appealing to a reverent175 tenderness safer from the gusts176 of discovery. Certainly Deronda’s ambition, even in his spring-time, lay exceptionally aloof177 from conspicuous178, vulgar triumph, and from other ugly forms of boyish energy; perhaps because he was early impassioned by ideas, and burned his fire on those heights. One may spend a good deal of energy in disliking and resisting what others pursue, and a boy who is fond of somebody else’s pencil-case may not be more energetic than another who is fond of giving his own pencil-case away. Still it was not Deronda’s disposition to escape from ugly scenes; he was more inclined to sit through them and take care of the fellow least able to take care of himself. It had helped to make him popular that he was sometimes a little compromised by this apparent comradeship. For a meditative interest in learning how human miseries179 are wrought—as precocious180 in him as another sort of genius in the poet who writes a Queen Mab at nineteen—was so infused with kindliness that it easily passed for comradeship. Enough. In many of our neighbors’ lives there is much not only of error and lapse181, but of a certain exquisite182 goodness which can never be written or even spoken—only divined by each of us, according to the inward instruction of our own privacy.
The impression he made at Cambridge corresponded to his position at Eton. Every one interested in him agreed that he might have taken a high place if his motives184 had been of a more pushing sort, and if he had not, instead of regarding studies as instruments of success, hampered185 himself with the notion that they were to feed motive183 and opinion—a notion which set him criticising methods and arguing against his freight and harness when he should have been using all his might to pull. In the beginning his work at the university had a new zest186 for him: indifferent to the continuation of Eton classical drill, he applied187 himself vigorously to mathematics, for which he had shown an early aptitude104 under Mr. Fraser, and he had the delight of feeling his strength in a comparatively fresh exercise of thought. That delight, and the favorable opinion of his tutor, determined him to try for a mathematical scholarship in the Easter of his second year: he wished to gratify Sir Hugo by some achievement, and the study of the higher mathematics, having the growing fascination188 inherent in all thinking which demands intensity189, was making him a more exclusive worker than he had been before.
But here came the old check which had been growing with his growth. He found the inward bent toward comprehension and thoroughness diverging190 more and more from the track marked out by the standards of examination: he felt a heightening discontent with the wearing futility191 and enfeebling strain of a demand for excessive retention192 and dexterity193 without any insight into the principles which form the vital connections of knowledge. (Deronda’s undergraduateship occurred fifteen years ago, when the perfection of our university methods was not yet indisputable.) In hours when his dissatisfaction was strong upon him he reproached himself for having been attracted by the conventional advantage of belonging to an English university, and was tempted194 toward the project of asking Sir Hugo to let him quit Cambridge and pursue a more independent line of study abroad. The germs of this inclination had been already stirring in his boyish love of universal history, which made him want to be at home in foreign countries, and follow in imagination the traveling students of the middle ages. He longed now to have the sort of apprenticeship195 to life which would not shape him too definitely, and rob him of the choice that might come from a free growth. One sees that Deronda’s demerits were likely to be on the side of reflective hesitation196, and this tendency was encouraged by his position; there was no need for him to get an immediate income, or to fit himself in haste for a profession; and his sensibility to the half-known facts of his parentage made him an excuse for lingering longer than others in a state of social neutrality. Other men, he inwardly said, had a more definite place and duties. But the project which flattered his inclination might not have gone beyond the stage of ineffective brooding, if certain circumstances had not quickened it into action.
The circumstances arose out of an enthusiastic friendship which extended into his after-life. Of the same year with himself, and occupying small rooms close to his, was a youth who had come as an exhibitioner from Christ’s Hospital, and had eccentricities198 enough for a Charles Lamb. Only to look at his pinched features and blonde hair hanging over his collar reminded one of pale quaint42 heads by early German painters; and when this faint coloring was lit up by a joke, there came sudden creases199 about the mouth and eyes which might have been moulded by the soul of an aged197 humorist. His father, an engraver200 of some distinction, had been dead eleven years, and his mother had three girls to educate and maintain on a meagre annuity201. Hans Meyrick—he had been daringly christened after Holbein—felt himself the pillar, or rather the knotted and twisted trunk, round which these feeble climbing plants must cling. There was no want of ability or of honest well-meaning affection to make the prop12 trustworthy: the ease and quickness with which he studied might serve him to win prizes at Cambridge, as he had done among the Blue Coats, in spite of irregularities. The only danger was, that the incalculable tendencies in him might be fatally timed, and that his good intentions might be frustrated by some act which was not due to habit but to capricious, scattered202 impulses. He could not be said to have any one bad habit; yet at longer or shorter intervals203 he had fits of impish recklessness, and did things that would have made the worst habits.
Hans in his right mind, however, was a lovable creature, and in Deronda he had happened to find a friend who was likely to stand by him with the more constancy, from compassion204 for these brief aberrations205 that might bring a long repentance206. Hans, indeed, shared Deronda’s rooms nearly as much as he used his own: to Deronda he poured himself out on his studies, his affairs, his hopes; the poverty of his home, and his love for the creatures there; the itching207 of his fingers to draw, and his determination to fight it away for the sake of getting some sort of a plum that he might divide with his mother and the girls. He wanted no confidence in return, but seemed to take Deronda as an Olympian who needed nothing—an egotism in friendship which is common enough with mercurial208, expansive natures. Deronda was content, and gave Meyrick all the interest he claimed, getting at last a brotherly anxiety about him, looking after him in his erratic209 moments, and contriving210 by adroitly211 delicate devices not only to make up for his friend’s lack of pence, but to save him from threatening chances. Such friendship easily becomes tender: the one spreads strong sheltering wings that delight in spreading, the other gets the warm protection which is also a delight. Meyrick was going in for a classical scholarship, and his success, in various ways momentous212, was the more probable from the steadying influence of Deronda’s friendship.
But an imprudence of Meyrick’s, committed at the beginning of the autumn term, threatened to disappoint his hopes. With his usual alternation between unnecessary expense and self-privation, he had given too much money for an old engraving213 which fascinated him, and to make up for it, had come from London in a third-class carriage with his eyes exposed to a bitter wind and any irritating particles the wind might drive before it. The consequence was a severe inflammation of the eyes, which for some time hung over him the threat of a lasting214 injury. This crushing trouble called out all Deronda’s readiness to devote himself, and he made every other occupation secondary to that of being companion and eyes to Hans, working with him and for him at his classics, that if possible his chance of the classical scholarship might be saved. Hans, to keep the knowledge of his suffering from his mother and sisters, alleged215 his work as a reason for passing the Christmas at Cambridge, and his friend stayed up with him.
Meanwhile Deronda relaxed his hold on his mathematics, and Hans, reflecting on this, at length said: “Old fellow, while you are hoisting216 me you are risking yourself. With your mathematical cram217 one may be like Moses or Mohammed or somebody of that sort who had to cram, and forgot in one day what it had taken him forty to learn.”
Deronda would not admit that he cared about the risk, and he had really been beguiled218 into a little indifference219 by double sympathy: he was very anxious that Hans should not miss the much-needed scholarship, and he felt a revival220 of interest in the old studies. Still, when Hans, rather late in the day, got able to use his own eyes, Deronda had tenacity221 enough to try hard and recover his lost ground. He failed, however; but he had the satisfaction of seeing Meyrick win.
Success, as a sort of beginning that urged completion, might have reconciled Deronda to his university course; but the emptiness of all things, from politics to pastimes, is never so striking to us as when we fail in them. The loss of the personal triumph had no severity for him, but the sense of having spent his time ineffectively in a mode of working which had been against the grain, gave him a distaste for any renewal of the process, which turned his imagined project of quitting Cambridge into a serious intention. In speaking of his intention to Meyrick he made it appear that he was glad of the turn events had taken—glad to have the balance dip decidedly, and feel freed from his hesitations222; but he observed that he must of course submit to any strong objection on the part of Sir Hugo.
Meyrick’s joy and gratitude were disturbed by much uneasiness. He believed in Deronda’s alleged preference, but he felt keenly that in serving him Daniel had placed himself at a disadvantage in Sir Hugo’s opinion, and he said mournfully, “If you had got the scholarship, Sir Hugo would have thought that you asked to leave us with a better grace. You have spoiled your luck for my sake, and I can do nothing to amend223 it.”
“Yes, you can; you are to be a first-rate fellow. I call that a first-rate investment of my luck.”
“Oh, confound it! You save an ugly mongrel from drowning, and expect him to cut a fine figure. The poets have made tragedies enough about signing one’s self over to wickedness for the sake of getting something plummy; I shall write a tragedy of a fellow who signed himself over to be good, and was uncomfortable ever after.”
But Hans lost no time in secretly writing the history of the affair to Sir Hugo, making it plain that but for Deronda’s generous devotion he could hardly have failed to win the prize he had been working for.
The two friends went up to town together: Meyrick to rejoice with his mother and the girls in their little home at Chelsea; Deronda to carry out the less easy task of opening his mind to Sir Hugo. He relied a little on the baronet’s general tolerance of eccentricities, but he expected more opposition224 than he met with. He was received with even warmer kindness than usual, the failure was passed over lightly, and when he detailed225 his reasons for wishing to quit the university and go to study abroad, Sir Hugo sat for some time in a silence which was rather meditative than surprised. At last he said, looking at Daniel with examination, “So you don’t want to be an Englishman to the backbone226 after all?”
“I want to be an Englishman, but I want to understand other points of view. And I want to get rid of a merely English attitude in studies.”
“I see; you don’t want to be turned out in the same mould as every other youngster. And I have nothing to say against your doffing227 some of our national prejudices. I feel the better myself for having spent a good deal of my time abroad. But, for God’s sake, keep an English cut, and don’t become indifferent to bad tobacco! And, my dear boy, it is good to be unselfish and generous; but don’t carry that too far. It will not do to give yourself to be melted down for the benefit of the tallow-trade; you must know where to find yourself. However, I shall put no veto on your going. Wait until I can get off Committee, and I’ll run over with you.”
So Deronda went according to his will. But not before he had spent some hours with Hans Meyrick, and been introduced to the mother and sisters in the Chelsea home. The shy girls watched and registered every look of their brother’s friend, declared by Hans to have been the salvation228 of him, a fellow like nobody else, and, in fine, a brick. They so thoroughly accepted Deronda as an ideal, that when he was gone the youngest set to work, under the criticism of the two elder girls, to paint him as Prince Camaralzaman.
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1
astronomer
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| n.天文学家 | |
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deduction
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| n.减除，扣除，减除额；推论，推理，演绎 | |
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accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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invokes
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| v.援引( invoke的第三人称单数 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cardinals
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| 红衣主教( cardinal的名词复数 )； 红衣凤头鸟（见于北美，雄鸟为鲜红色）； 基数 | |
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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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16
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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collateral
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| adj.平行的；旁系的；n.担保品 | |
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cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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hoops
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| n.箍( hoop的名词复数 )；（篮球）篮圈；（旧时儿童玩的）大环子；（两端埋在地里的）小铁弓 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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rosebud
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| n.蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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embellished
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| v.美化( embellish的过去式和过去分词 )；装饰；修饰；润色 | |
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junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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impaling
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| 钉在尖桩上( impale的现在分词 ) | |
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falcons
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| n.猎鹰( falcon的名词复数 ) | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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47
lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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51
consecrating
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| v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的现在分词 )；奉献 | |
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52
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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53
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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54
defile
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| v.弄污，弄脏；n.(山间)小道 | |
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55
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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57
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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wedlock
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| n.婚姻，已婚状态 | |
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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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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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69
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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70
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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71
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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72
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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73
conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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74
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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75
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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77
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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78
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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79
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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80
intensify
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| vt.加强；变强；加剧 | |
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81
idyllic
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| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
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82
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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83
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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84
resistant
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| adj.(to)抵抗的，有抵抗力的 | |
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85
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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86
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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87
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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88
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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89
subsiding
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的现在分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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90
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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91
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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92
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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93
scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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94
quarries
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| n.（采）石场( quarry的名词复数 )；猎物（指鸟，兽等）；方形石；（格窗等的）方形玻璃v.从采石场采得( quarry的第三人称单数 )；从（书本等中）努力发掘（资料等）；在采石场采石 | |
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95
whitewash
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| v.粉刷，掩饰；n.石灰水，粉刷，掩饰 | |
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96
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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97
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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98
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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99
nurture
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| n.养育，照顾，教育；滋养，营养品；vt.养育，给与营养物，教养，扶持 | |
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100
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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101
beget
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| v.引起；产生 | |
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102
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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103
aptitudes
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| （学习方面的）才能，资质，天资( aptitude的名词复数 ) | |
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104
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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105
tenors
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| n.男高音( tenor的名词复数 )；大意；男高音歌唱家；（文件的）抄本 | |
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106
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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107
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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108
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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109
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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110
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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111
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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112
antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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113
inborn
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| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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114
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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115
radicals
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| n.激进分子( radical的名词复数 )；根基；基本原理；[数学]根数 | |
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116
consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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117
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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118
totter
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| v.蹒跚， 摇摇欲坠；n.蹒跚的步子 | |
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119
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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120
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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121
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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122
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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123
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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124
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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125
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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126
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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127
parsing
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| n.分[剖]析，分解v.从语法上描述或分析（词句等）( parse的现在分词 ) | |
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128
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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129
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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130
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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131
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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132
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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133
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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134
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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135
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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136
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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137
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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139
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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140
grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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141
entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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142
yeast
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| n.酵母；酵母片；泡沫；v.发酵；起泡沫 | |
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143
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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144
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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145
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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146
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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147
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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148
propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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149
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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150
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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151
forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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152
disport
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| v.嬉戏，玩 | |
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153
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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154
clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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155
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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156
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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157
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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158
braces
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| n.吊带，背带；托架( brace的名词复数 )；箍子；括弧；（儿童）牙箍v.支住( brace的第三人称单数 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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159
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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160
construe
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| v.翻译，解释 | |
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161
apoplectic
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| adj.中风的；愤怒的；n.中风患者 | |
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162
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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163
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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164
abate
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| vi.(风势，疼痛等)减弱，减轻，减退 | |
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165
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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166
belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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167
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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168
effusively
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| adv.变溢地，热情洋溢地 | |
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169
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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170
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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171
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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172
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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173
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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174
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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175
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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176
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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177
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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178
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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179
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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180
precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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181
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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182
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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183
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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184
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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185
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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186
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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187
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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188
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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189
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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190
diverging
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| 分开( diverge的现在分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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191
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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192
retention
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| n.保留，保持，保持力，记忆力 | |
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193
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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194
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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195
apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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196
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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197
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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198
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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199
creases
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的第三人称单数 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹 | |
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200
engraver
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| n.雕刻师，雕工 | |
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201
annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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202
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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203
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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204
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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205
aberrations
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| n.偏差( aberration的名词复数 )；差错；脱离常规；心理失常 | |
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206
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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207
itching
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| adj.贪得的，痒的，渴望的v.发痒( itch的现在分词 ) | |
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208
mercurial
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| adj.善变的，活泼的 | |
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209
erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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210
contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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211
adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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212
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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213
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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214
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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216
hoisting
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| 起重，提升 | |
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217
cram
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| v.填塞，塞满，临时抱佛脚，为考试而学习 | |
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218
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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219
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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220
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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221
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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222
hesitations
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| n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 )；踌躇；犹豫（之事或行为）；口吃 | |
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223
amend
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| vt.修改，修订，改进；n.[pl.]赔罪，赔偿 | |
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224
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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225
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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226
backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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227
doffing
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| n.下筒，落纱v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的现在分词 ) | |
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228
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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