If we were merely writing a novel, we should hasten to its close, and in order to get there more expeditiously2 we should neglect certain details, which, we are told, historical figures can do without. That is not our opinion. From the day we first put pen to paper—now some thirty years ago—whether our thought were concentrated on a drama, or whether it spread itself into a novel, we have had a double end—to instruct and to amuse.
And we say instruct first, for amusement has never been to our mind anything but a mask for instruction. Have we succeeded? We think so. Before long we shall have covered with our narratives4 an enormous period of time; between the “Comtesse de Salisbury” and the “Comte de Monte-Cristo” five centuries and a half are comprised. Well, we assert that we have taught France as much history about those five centuries and a half as any historian.
More than that; although our opinions are well known; although, under the Bourbons of the elder branch as under the Bourbons of the younger branch, under the Republic as under the present government, we have always proclaimed them loudly, we do not believe that that opinion has been unduly5 manifested in our books and dramas.
We admire the Marquis de Posa in Schiller’s “Don Carlos”; but, in his stead, we should not have anticipated the spirit of that age to the point of placing a philosopher of the eighteenth century among the heroes of the sixteenth, an encyclopedist at the court of Philippe II. Therefore, just as we have been—in literary parlance—monarchical under the Monarchy6, republican under the Republic, we are to-day reconstructionists under the Consulate7.
That does not prevent our thought from hovering8 above men, above their epoch9, and giving to each the share of good and evil they do. Now that share no one, except God, has the right to award from his individual point of view. The kings of Egypt who, at the moment they passed into the unknown, were judged upon the threshold of their tombs, were not judged by a man, but by a people. That is why it is said: “The judgment10 of a people is the judgment of God.”
Historian, novelist, poet, dramatic author, we are nothing more than the foreman of a jury who impartially11 sums up the arguments and leaves the jury to give their verdict. The book is the summing up; the readers are the jury.
That is why, having to paint one of the most gigantic figures, not only of modern times but of all times; having to paint the period of his transition, that is to say the moment when Bonaparte transformed himself into Napoleon, the general into an emperor—that is why we say, in the fear of becoming unjust, we abandon interpretations12 and substitute facts.
We are not of those who say with Voltaire that, “no one is a hero to his valet.”
It may be that the valet is near-sighted or envious—two infirmities that resemble each other more closely than people think. We maintain that a hero may become a kind man, but a hero, for being kind, is none the less a hero.
What is a hero in the eyes of the public? A man whose genius is momentarily greater than his heart. What is a hero in private life? A man whose heart is momentarily greater than his genius.
Historians, judge the genius!
People, judge the heart!
Who judged Charlemagne? The historians. Who judged Henri IV.? The people. Which, in your opinion, was the most righteously judged?
Well, in order to render just judgment, and compel the court of appeals, which is none other than posterity13, to confirm contemporaneous judgments14, it is essential not to light up one side only of the figure we depict15, but to walk around it, and wherever the sunlight does not reach, to hold a torch, or even a candle.
Now, let us return to Bonaparte.
He was working, as we said, with Bourrienne. Let us inquire into the usual division of the First Consul’s time.
He rose at seven or eight in the morning, and immediately called one of his secretaries, preferably Bourrienne, and worked with him until ten. At ten, breakfast was announced; Josephine, Hortense and Eugène either waited or sat down to table with the family, that is with the aides-de-camp on duty and Bourrienne. After breakfast he talked with the usual party, or the invited guests, if there were any; one hour was devoted16 to this intercourse17, which was generally shared by the First Consul’s two brothers, Lucien and Joseph, Regnault de Saint-Jean-d’Angely, Boulay (de la Meurthe), Monge, Berthollet, Laplace and Arnault. Toward noon Cambacérès arrived. As a general thing Bonaparte devoted half an hour to his chancellor18; then suddenly, without warning, he would rise and say: “Au revoir, Josephine! au revoir, Hortense! Come, Bourrienne, let us go to work.”
This speech, which recurred19 almost regularly in the same words, was no sooner uttered than Bonaparte left the salon20 and returned to his study. There, no system of work was adopted; it might be some urgent matter or merely a caprice. Either Bonaparte dictated22 or Bourrienne read, after which the First Consul went to the council.
In the earlier months of the Consulate, he was obliged to cross the courtyard of the little Luxembourg to reach the council-chamber, which, if the weather were rainy, put him in bad humor; but toward the end of December he had the courtyard covered; and from that time he almost always returned to his study singing. Bonaparte sang almost as false as Louis XV.
As soon as he was back he examined the work he had ordered done, signed his letters, and stretched himself out in his armchair, the arms of which he stabbed with his penknife as he talked. If he was not inclined to talk, he reread the letters of the day before, or the pamphlets of the day, laughing at intervals23 with the hearty24 laugh of a great child. Then suddenly, as one awakening25 from a dream, he would spring to his feet and cry out: “Write, Bourrienne!”
Then he would sketch27 out the plan for some building to be erected29, or dictate21 some one of those vast projects which have amazed—let us say rather, terrified the world.
At five o’clock he dined; after dinner the First Consul ascended30 to Josephine’s apartments, where he usually received the visits of the ministers, and particularly that of the minister of foreign affairs, M. de Talleyrand. At midnight, sometimes earlier, but never later, he gave the signal for retiring by saying, brusquely: “Let us go to bed.”
The next day, at seven in the morning, the same life began over again, varied31 only by unforeseen incidents.
After these details of the personal habits of the great genius we are trying to depict under his first aspect, his personal portrait ought, we think, to come.
Bonaparte, First Consul, has left fewer indications of his personal appearance than Napoleon, Emperor. Now, as nothing less resembles the Emperor of 1812 than the First Consul of 1800; let us endeavor, if possible, to sketch with a pen those features which the brush has never fully32 portrayed33, that countenance35 which neither bronze nor marble has been able to render. Most of the painters and sculptors36 who flourished during this illustrious period of art—Gros, David, Prud’hon, Girodet and Bosio—have endeavored to transmit to posterity the features of the Man of Destiny, at the different epochs when the vast providential vistas37 which beckoned38 him first revealed themselves. Thus, we have portraits of Bonaparte, commander-in-chief, Bonaparte, First Consul, and Napoleon, Emperor; and although some painters and sculptors have caught more or less successfully the type of his face, it may be said that there does not exist, either of the general, the First Consul, or the emperor, a single portrait or bust39 which perfectly40 resembles him.
It was not within the power of even genius to triumph over an impossibility. During the first part of Bonaparte’s life it was possible to paint or chisel41 Bonaparte’s protuberant42 skull43, his brow furrowed44 by the sublime45 line of thought, his pale elongated46 face, his granite47 complexion48, and the meditative49 character of his countenance. During the second part of his life it was possible to paint or to chisel his broadened forehead, his admirably defined eyebrows50, his straight nose, his close-pressed lips, his chin modelled with rare perfection, his whole face, in short, like a coin of Augustus. But that which neither his bust nor his portrait could render, which was utterly51 beyond the domain52 of imitation, was the mobility53 of his look; that look which is to man what the lightning is to God, namely, the proof of his divinity.
In Bonaparte, that look obeyed his will with the rapidity of lightning; in one and the same minute it dared from beneath his eyelids54, now keen and piercing as the blade of a dagger55 violently unsheathed, now soft as a sun ray or a kiss, now stern as a challenge, or terrible as a threat.
Bonaparte had a look for every thought that stirred his soul. In Napoleon, this look, except in the momentous56 circumstances of his life, ceased to be mobile and became fixed57, but even so it was none the less impossible to render; it was a drill sounding the heart of whosoever he looked upon, the deepest, the most secret thought of which he meant to sound. Marble or painting might render the fixedness58 of that look, but neither the one nor the other could portray34 its life—that is to say, its penetrating59 and magnetic action. Troubled hearts have veiled eyes.
Bonaparte, even in the days of his leanness, had beautiful hands, and he displayed them with a certain coquetry. As he grew stouter61 his hands became superb; he took the utmost care of them, and looked at them when talking, with much complacency. He felt the same satisfaction in his teeth, which were handsome, though not with the splendor62 of his hands.
When he walked, either alone or with some one, whether in a room or in a garden, he always bent63 a little forward, as though his head were heavy to carry, and crossed his hands behind his back. He frequently made an involuntary movement with the right shoulder, as if a nervous shudder64 had passed through it, and at the same time his mouth made a curious movement from right to left, which seemed to result from the other. These movements, however, had nothing convulsive about them, whatever may have been said notwithstanding; they were a simple trick indicative of great preoccupation, a sort of congestion66 of the mind. It was chiefly manifested when the general, the First Consul, or the Emperor, was maturing vast plans. It was after such promenades67, accompanied by this twofold movement of the shoulders and lips, that he dictated his most important notes. On a campaign, with the army, on horseback, he was indefatigable68; he was almost as much so in ordinary life, and would often walk five or six hours in succession without perceiving it.
When he walked thus with some one with whom he was familiar, he commonly passed his arm through that or his companion and leaned upon him.
Slender and thin as he was at the period when we place him before our readers’ eyes, he was much concerned by the fear of future corpulence; it was to Bourrienne that he usually confided69 this singular dread70.
“You see, Bourrienne, how slim and abstemious71 I am. Well, nothing can rid me of the idea that when I am forty I shall be a great eater and very fat. I foresee that my constitution will undergo a change. I take exercise enough, but what will you!—it’s a presentiment72; and it won’t fail to happen.”
He had a positive passion for baths, which no doubt contributed not a little to make him fat; this passion became an irresistible75 need. He took one every other day, and stayed in it two hours, during which time the journals and pamphlets of the day were read to him. As the water cooled he would turn the hot-water faucet76 until he raised the temperature of his bathroom to such a degree that the reader could neither bear it any longer, nor see to read. Not until then would he permit the door to be opened.
It has been said that he was subject to epileptic attacks after his first campaign in Italy. Bourrienne was with him eleven years, and never saw him suffer from an attack of this malady77.
Bonaparte, though indefatigable when necessity demanded it, required much sleep, especially during the period of which we are now writing. Bonaparte, general or First Consul, kept others awake, but he slept, and slept well. He retired78 at midnight, sometimes earlier, as we have said, and when at seven in the morning they entered his room to awaken26 him he was always asleep. Usually at the first call he would rise; but occasionally, still half asleep, he would mutter: “Bourrienne, I beg of you, let me sleep a little longer.”
Then, if there was nothing urgent, Bourrienne would return at eight o’clock; if it was otherwise, he insisted, and then, with much grumbling79, Bonaparte would get up. He slept seven, sometimes eight, hours out of the twenty-four, taking a short nap in the afternoon. He also gave particular instruction for the night.
“At night,” he would say, “come in my room as seldom as possible. Never wake me if you have good news to announce—good news can wait; but if there is bad news, wake me instantly, for then there is not a moment to be lost in facing it.”
As soon as Bonaparte had risen and made his morning ablutions, which were very thorough, his valet entered and brushed his hair and shaved him; while he was being shaved, a secretary or an aide-de-camp read the newspapers aloud, always beginning with the “Moniteur.” He gave no real attention to any but the English and German papers.
“Skip that,” he would say when they read him the French papers; “I know what they say, because they only say what I choose.”
His toilet completed, Bonaparte went down to his study. We have seen above what he did there. At ten o’clock the breakfast as announced, usually by the steward80, in these words: “The general is served.” No title, it will be observed, not even that of First Consul.
The repast was a frugal81 one. Every morning a dish was served which Bonaparte particularly liked—a chicken fried in oil with garlic; the same dish that is now called on the bills of fare at restaurants “Chicken à la Marengo.”
Bonaparte drank little, and then only Bordeaux or Burgundy, preferably the latter. After breakfast, as after dinner, he drank a cup of black coffee; never between meals. When he chanced to work until late at night they brought him, not coffee, but chocolate, and the secretary who worked with him had a cup of the same. Most historians, narrators, and biographers, after saying that Bonaparte drank a great deal of coffee, add that he took snuff to excess.
They are doubly mistaken. From the time he was twenty-four, Bonaparte had contracted the habit of taking snuff: but only enough to keep his brain awake. He took it habitually82, not, as biographers have declared, from the pocket of his waistcoat, but from a snuff-box which he changed almost every day for a new one—having in this matter of collecting snuff-boxes a certain resemblance to the great Frederick. If he ever did take snuff from his waistcoat pocket, it was on his battle days, when it would have been difficult, while riding at a gallop83 under fire, to hold both reins84 and snuff-box. For those days he had special waistcoats, with the right-hand pocket lined with perfumed leather; and, as the sloping cut of his coat enabled him to insert his thumb and forefinger85 into this pocket without unbuttoning his coat, he could, under any circumstances and at any gait, take snuff when he pleased.
As general or First Consul, he never wore gloves, contenting himself with holding and crumpling86 them in his left hand. As Emperor, there was some advance in this propriety87; he wore one glove, and as he changed his gloves, not once, but two or three times a day, his valet adopted the habit of giving him alternate gloves; thus making one pair serve as two.
Bonaparte had two great passions which Napoleon inherited—for war and architectural monuments to his fame.
Gay, almost jolly in camp, he was dreamy and sombre in repose88. To escape this gloom he had recourse to the electricity of art, and saw visions of those gigantic monumental works of which he undertook many, and completed some. He realized that such works are part of the life of peoples; they are history written in capitals, landmarks89 of the ages, left standing65 long after generations are swept away. He knew that Rome lives in her ruins, that Greece speaks by her statues, that Egypt, splendid and mysterious spectre, appeared through her monuments on the threshold of civilized90 existence.
What he loved above everything, what he hugged in preference to all else, was renown91, heroic uproar92; hence his need of war, his thirst for glory. He often said:
“A great reputation is a great noise; the louder it is, the further it is heard. Laws, institutions, monuments, nations, all fall; but sound remains93 and resounds94 through other generations. Babylon and Alexandria are fallen; Semiramis and Alexander stand erect28, greater perhaps through the echo of their renown, waxing and multiplying through the ages, than they were in their lifetimes.” Then he added, connecting these ideas with himself: “My power depends on my fame and on the battles I win. Conquest has made me what I am, and conquest alone can sustain me. A new born government must dazzle, must amaze. The moment it no longer flames, it dies out; once it ceases to grow, it falls.”
He was long a Corsican, impatient under the conquest of his country; but after the 13th Vendemiaire he became a true Frenchman, and ended by loving France with true passion. His dream was to see her great, happy, powerful, at the head of the nations in glory and in art. It is true that, in making France great, he became great with her, and attached his name indissolubly to her grandeur95. To him, living eternally in this thought, actuality disappeared in the future; wherever the hurricane of war may have swept him, France, above all things else, above all nations, filled his thoughts. “What will my Athenians think?” said Alexander, after Issus and Arbela. “I hope the French will be content with me,” said Bonaparte, after Rivoli and the Pyramids.
Before battle, this modern Alexander gave little thought to what he should do in case of victory, but much in case of defeat. He, more than any man, was convinced that trifles often decide the greatest events; he was therefore more concerned in foreseeing such events than in producing them. He watched them come to birth, and ripen96; then, when the right time came, he appeared, laid his hand on them, mastered and guided them, as an able rider roasters and guides a spirited horse.
His rapid rise in the midst of revolutions and political changes he had brought about, or seen accomplished97, the events which he had controlled, had given him a certain contempt for men; moreover, he was not inclined by nature to think well of them. His lips were often heard to utter the grievous maxim—all the more grievous because he personally knew its truth—“There are two levers by which men are moved, fear and self-interest.”
With such opinions Bonaparte did not, in fact, believe in friendship.
“How often,” said Bourrienne, “has he said to me, ‘Friendship is only a word; I love no one, not even my brothers—Joseph a little possibly; but if I love him it is only from habit, and because he is my elder. Duroc, yes, I love him; but why? Because his character pleases me; because he is stern, cold, resolute98; besides, Duroc never sheds a tear. But why should I love any one? Do you think I have any true friends? As long as I am what I am, I shall have friends—apparently at least; but when my luck ceases, you’ll see! Trees don’t have leaves in winter. I tell you, Bourrienne, we must leave whimpering to the women, it’s their business; as for me, no feelings. I need a vigorous hand and a stout60 heart; if not, better let war and government alone.’”
In his familiar intercourse, Bonaparte was what schoolboys call a tease; but his teasings were never spiteful, and seldom unkind. His ill-humor, easily aroused, disappeared like a cloud driven by the wind; it evaporated in words, and disappeared of its own will. Sometimes, however, when matters of public import were concerned, and his lieutenants99 or ministers were to blame, he gave way to violent anger; his outbursts were then hard and cruel, and often humiliating. He gave blows with a club, under which, willingly or unwillingly100, the recipient101 had to bow his head; witness his scene with Jomini and that with the Duc de Bellune.
Bonaparte had two sets of enemies, the Jacobins and the royalists; he detested102 the first and feared the second. In speaking of the Jacobins, he invariably called them the murderers of Louis XVI.; as for the royalists, that was another thing; one might almost have thought he foresaw the Restoration. He had about him two men who had voted the death of the king, Fouché and Cambacérès.
He dismissed Fouché, and, if he kept Cambacérès, it was because he wanted the services of that eminent103 legist; but he could not endure him, and he would often catch his colleague, the Second Consul, by the ear, and say: “My poor Cambacérès, I’m so sorry for you; but your goose is cooked. If ever the Bourbons get back they will hang you.”
One day Cambacérès lost his temper, and with a twist of his head he pulled his ear from the living pincers that held it.
“Come,” he said, “have done with your foolish joking.”
Whenever Bonaparte escaped any danger, a childish habit, a Corsican habit, reappeared; he always made a rapid sign of the cross on his breast with the thumb.
Whenever he met with any annoyance104, or was haunted with a disagreeable thought, he hummed—what air? An air of his own that was no air at all, and which nobody ever noticed, he sang so false. Then, still singing, he would sit down before his writing desk, tilting105 in his chair, tipping it back till he almost fell over, and mutilating, as we have said, its arms with a penknife, which served no other purpose, inasmuch as he never mended a pen himself. His secretaries were charged with that duty, and they mended them in the best manner possible, mindful of the fact that they would have to copy that terrific writing, which, as we know, was not absolutely illegible106.
The effect produced on Bonaparte by the ringing of bells is known. It was the only music he understood, and it went straight to his heart. If he was seated when the vibrations107 began he would hold up his hand for silence, and lean toward the sound. If he was walking, he would stop, bend his head, and listen. As long as the bell rang he remained motionless; when the sound died away in space, he resumed his work, saying to those who asked him to explain this singular liking108 for the iron voice: “It reminds me of my first years at Brienne; I was happy then!”
At the period of which we are writing, his greatest personal interest was the purchase he had made of the domain of Malmaison. He went there every night like a schoolboy off for his holiday, and spent Sunday and often Monday there. There, work was neglected for walking expeditions, during which he personally superintended the improvements he had ordered. Occasionally, and especially at first, he would wander beyond the limits of the estate; but these excursions were thought dangerous by the police, and given up entirely109 after the conspiracy110 of the Aréna and the affair of the infernal machine.
The revenue derived111 from Malmaison, calculated by Bonaparte himself, on the supposition that he should sell his fruits and vegetables, did not amount to more than six thousand francs.
“That’s not bad,” he said to Bourrienne; “but,” he added with a sigh, “one must have thirty thousand a year to be able to live here.”
Bonaparte introduced a certain poesy in his taste for the country. He liked to see a woman with a tall flexible figure glide112 through the dusky shrubberies of the park; only that woman must be dressed in white. He hated gowns of a dark color and had a horror of stout women. As for pregnant women, he had such an aversion for them that it was very seldom he invited one to his soirées or his fêtes. For the rest, with little gallantry in his nature, too overbearing to attract, scarcely civil to women, it was rare for him to say, even to the prettiest, a pleasant thing; in fact, he often produced a shudder by the rude remarks he made even to Josephine’s best friends. To one he remarked: “Oh! what red arms you have!” To another, “What an ugly headdress you are wearing!” To a third, “Your gown is dirty; I have seen you wear it twenty times”; or, “Why don’t you change your dressmaker; you are dressed like a fright.”
One day he said to the Duchesse de Chevreuse, a charming blonde, whose hair was the admiration113 of everyone:
“It’s queer how red your hair is!”
“Possibly,” replied the duchess, “but this is the first time any man has told me so.”
Bonaparte did not like cards; when he did happen to play it was always vingt-et-un. For the rest, he had one trait in common with Henry IV., he cheated; but when the game was over he left all the gold and notes he had won on the table, saying:
“You are ninnies! I have cheated all the time we’ve been playing, and you never found out. Those who lost can take their money back.”
Born and bred in the Catholic faith, Bonaparte had no preference for any dogma. When he re-established divine worship it was done as a political act, not as a religious one. He was fond, however, of discussions bearing on the subject; but he defined his own part in advance by saying: “My reason makes me a disbeliever in many things; but the impressions of my childhood and the inspirations of my early youth have flung me back into uncertainty114.”
Nevertheless he would never hear of materialism115; he cared little what the dogma was, provided that dogma recognized a Creator. One beautiful evening in Messidor, on board his vessel116, as it glided117 along between the twofold azure118 of the sky and sea, certain mathematicians119 declared there was no God, only animated120 matter. Bonaparte looked at the celestial121 arch, a hundred times more brilliant between Malta and Alexandria than it is in Europe, and, at a moment when they thought him unconscious of the conversation, he exclaimed, pointing to the stars: “You may say what you please, but it was a God who made all that.”
Bonaparte, though very exact in paying his private debts, was just the reverse about public expenses. He was firmly convinced that in all past transactions between ministers and purveyors or contractors122, that if the minister who had made the contract was not a dupe, the State at any rate was robbed; for this reason he delayed the period of payment as long as possible; there were literally124 no evasions125, no difficulties he would not make, no bad reasons he would not give. It was a fixed idea with him, an immutable126 principle, that every contractor123 was a cheat.
One day a man who had made a bid that was accepted was presented to him.
“What is your name?” he asked, with his accustomed brusqueness.
“Vollant, citizen First Consul.”
“Good name for a contractor.”
“I spell it with two l’s, citizen.”
“To rob the better, sir,” retorted Bonaparte, turning his back on him.
Bonaparte seldom changed his decisions, even when he saw they were unjust. No one ever heard him say: “I was mistaken.” On the contrary, his favorite saying was: “I always believe the worst”—a saying more worthy127 of Simon than Augustus.
But with all this, one felt that there was more of a desire in Bonaparte’s mind to seem to despise men than actual contempt for them. He was neither malignant128 nor vindictive129. Sometimes, it is true, he relied too much upon necessity, that iron-tipped goddess; but for the rest, take him away from the field of politics and he was kind, sympathetic, accessible to pity, fond of children (great proof of a kind and pitying heart), full of indulgence for human weakness in private life, and sometimes of a good-humored heartiness130, like that of Henri IV. playing with his children in the presence of the Spanish ambassador.
If we were writing history we should have many more things to say of Bonaparte without counting those which—after finishing with Bonaparte—we should still have to say of Napoleon. But we are writing a simple narrative3, in which Bonaparte plays a part; unfortunately, wherever Bonaparte shows himself, if only for a moment, he becomes, in spite of himself, a principal personage.
The reader must pardon us for having again fallen into digression; that man, who is a world in himself, has, against our will, swept us along in his whirlwind.
Let us return to Roland, and consequently to our legitimate131 tale.
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consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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expeditiously
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| adv.迅速地，敏捷地 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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narratives
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| 记叙文( narrative的名词复数 )； 故事； 叙述； 叙述部分 | |
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unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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monarchy
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| n.君主，最高统治者；君主政体，君主国 | |
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consulate
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| n.领事馆 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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interpretations
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| n.解释( interpretation的名词复数 )；表演；演绎；理解 | |
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posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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22
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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23
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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24
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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25
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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27
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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28
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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29
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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30
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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32
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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33
portrayed
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| v.画像( portray的过去式和过去分词 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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34
portray
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| v.描写，描述；画(人物、景象等) | |
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35
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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36
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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37
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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38
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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40
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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41
chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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42
protuberant
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| adj.突出的，隆起的 | |
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43
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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44
furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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46
elongated
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| v.延长，加长( elongate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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48
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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49
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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50
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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51
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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52
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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53
mobility
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| n.可动性，变动性，情感不定 | |
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54
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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55
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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56
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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57
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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58
fixedness
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| n.固定；稳定；稳固 | |
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59
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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61
stouter
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| 粗壮的( stout的比较级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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62
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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63
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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64
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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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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66
congestion
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| n.阻塞，消化不良 | |
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67
promenades
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| n.人行道( promenade的名词复数 )；散步场所；闲逛v.兜风( promenade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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68
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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69
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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70
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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71
abstemious
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| adj.有节制的，节俭的 | |
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72
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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73
obesity
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| n.肥胖，肥大 | |
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74
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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75
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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76
faucet
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| n.水龙头 | |
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77
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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78
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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79
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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80
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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81
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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82
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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83
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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84
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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85
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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86
crumpling
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| 压皱，弄皱( crumple的现在分词 )； 变皱 | |
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87
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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88
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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89
landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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90
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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91
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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92
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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93
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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94
resounds
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的第三人称单数 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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95
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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96
ripen
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| vt.使成熟；vi.成熟 | |
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97
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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98
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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99
lieutenants
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| n.陆军中尉( lieutenant的名词复数 )；副职官员；空军；仅低于…官阶的官员 | |
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100
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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101
recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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102
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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104
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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105
tilting
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| 倾斜，倾卸 | |
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106
illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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107
vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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108
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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109
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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110
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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111
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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112
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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113
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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114
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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115
materialism
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| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
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116
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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117
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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118
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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119
mathematicians
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| 数学家( mathematician的名词复数 ) | |
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120
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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121
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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122
contractors
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| n.（建筑、监造中的）承包人( contractor的名词复数 ) | |
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123
contractor
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| n.订约人，承包人，收缩肌 | |
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124
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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125
evasions
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| 逃避( evasion的名词复数 )； 回避； 遁辞； 借口 | |
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126
immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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127
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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128
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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129
vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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130
heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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131
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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