The Head of the House of Coombe had attended the Court Functions and been received at the palaces and castles of most of them. For in that aspect of his character of which Mademoiselle Vallé had heard more than Dowson, he was intimate with well-known and much-observed personages and places. A man born among those whose daily life builds, as it passes, at least a part of that which makes history and so records itself, must needs find companions, acquaintances, enemies, friends of varied19 character, and if he be, by chance, a keen observer of passing panoramas20, can lack no material for private reflection and the accumulation of important facts.
That part of his existence which connected itself with the slice of a house on the right side of the Mayfair street was but a small one. A feature of the untranslatableness of his character was that he was seen there but seldom. His early habit of crossing the Channel frequently had gradually reestablished itself as years passed. Among his acquaintances his “Saturday to Monday visits” to continental21 cities remote or unremote were discussed with humour. Possibly, upon these discussions, were finally founded the rumours22 of which Dowson had heard but which she had impartially23 declined to “credit”. Lively conjecture24 inevitably25 figured largely in their arguments and, when persons of unrestrained wit devote their attention to airy persiflage26, much may be included in their points of view.
Of these conjectural27 discussions no one was more clearly aware than Coombe himself, and the finished facility—even felicity—of his evasion28 of any attempt at delicately valued cross examination was felt to be inhumanly29 exasperating30.
In one of the older Squares which still remained stately, through the splendour of modern fashion had waned31 in its neighbourhood, there was among the gloomy, though imposing32, houses one in particular upon whose broad doorsteps—years before the Gareth-Lawlesses had appeared in London—Lord Coombe stood oftener than upon any other. At times his brougham waited before it for hours, and, at others, he appeared on foot and lifted the heavy knocker with a special accustomed knock recognized at once by any footman in waiting in the hall, who, hearing it, knew that his mistress—the old Dowager Duchess of Darte—would receive this visitor, if no other.
The interior of the house was of the type which, having from the first been massive and richly sombre, had mellowed33 into a darker sombreness and richness as it had stood unmoved amid London years and fogs. The grandeur34 of decoration and furnishing had been too solid to depreciate35 through decay, and its owner had been of no fickle36 mind led to waver in taste by whims38 of fashion. The rooms were huge and lofty, the halls and stairways spacious39, the fireplaces furnished with immense grates of glittering steel, which held in winter beds of scarlet40 glowing coal, kept scarlet glowing by a special footman whose being, so to speak, depended on his fidelity41 to his task.
There were many rooms whose doors were kept closed because they were apparently42 never used; there were others as little used but thrown open, warmed and brightened with flowers each day, because the Duchess chose to catch glimpses of their cheerfulness as she passed them on her way up or downstairs. The house was her own property, and, after her widowhood, when it was emptied of her children by their admirable marriages, and she herself became Dowager and, later, a confirmed rheumatic invalid43, it became doubly her home and was governed by her slightest whim37. She was not indeed an old woman of caprices, but her tastes, not being those of the later day in which she now lived, were regarded as a shade eccentric being firmly defined.
“I will not have my house glaring with electricity as if it were a shop. In my own rooms I will be lighted by wax candles. Large ones—as many as you please,” she said. “I will not be ‘rung up’ by telephone. My servants may if they like. It is not my affair to deprive them of the modern inconveniences, if they find them convenient. My senility does not take the form of insisting that the world shall cease to revolve44 upon its axis45. It formed that habit without my assistance, and it is to be feared that it would continue it in the face of my protests.”
It was, in fact, solely46 that portion of the world affecting herself alone which she preferred to retain as it had been in the brilliant early years of her life. She had been a great beauty and also a wit in the Court over which Queen Victoria had reigned47. She had possessed49 the delicate high nose, the soft full eyes, the “polished forehead,” the sloping white shoulders from which scarves floated or India shawls gracefully50 drooped51 in the Books of Beauty of the day. Her carriage had been noble, her bloom perfect, and, when she had driven through the streets “in attendance” on her Royal Mistress, the populace had always chosen her as “the pick of ’em all”. Young as she had then been, elderly statesmen had found her worth talking to, not as a mere beauty in her teens, but as a creature of singular brilliance52 and clarity of outlook upon a world which might have dazzled her youth. The most renowned53 among them had said of her, before she was twenty, that she would live to be one of the cleverest women in Europe, and that she had already the logical outlook of a just man of fifty.
She married early and was widowed in middle life. In her later years rheumatic fever so far disabled her as to confine her to her chair almost entirely54. Her sons and daughter had homes and families of their own to engage them. She would not allow them to sacrifice themselves to her because her life had altered its aspect.
“I have money, friends, good servants and a house I particularly like,” she summed the matter up; “I may be condemned55 to sit by the fire, but I am not condemned to be a bore to my inoffensive family. I can still talk and read, and I shall train myself to become a professional listener. This will attract. I shall not only read myself, but I will be read to. A strong young man with a nice voice shall bring magazines and books to me every day, and shall read the best things aloud. Delightful56 people will drop in to see me and will be amazed by my fund of information.”
It was during the first years of her enforced seclusion57 that Coombe’s intimacy58 with her began. He had known her during certain black days of his youth, and she had comprehended things he did not tell her. She had not spoken of them to him but she had silently given him of something which vaguely60 drew him to her side when darkness seemed to overwhelm him. The occupations of her life left her in those earlier days little leisure for close intimacies61, but, when she began to sit by her fire letting the busy world pass by, he gradually became one of those who “dropped in”.
In one of the huge rooms she had chosen for her own daily use, by the well-tended fire in its shining grate, she had created an agreeable corner where she sat in a chair marvellous for ease and comfort, enclosed from draughts62 by a fire screen of antique Chinese lacquer, a table by her side and all she required within her reach. Upon the table stood a silver bell and, at its sound, her companion, her reader, her maid or her personally trained footman, came and went quietly and promptly63 as if summoned by magic. Her life itself was simple, but a certain almost royal dignity surrounded her loneliness. Her companion, Miss Brent, an intelligent, mature woman who had known a hard and pinched life, found at once comfort and savour in it.
“It is not I who am expensive,”—this in one of her talks with Coombe, “but to live in a house of this size, well kept by excellent servants who are satisfied with their lot, is not a frugal64 thing. A cap of tea for those of my friends who run in to warm themselves by my fire in the afternoon; a dinner or so when I am well enough to sit at the head of my table, represent almost all I now do for the world. Naturally, I must see that my tea is good and that my dinners cannot be objected to. Nevertheless, I sit here in my chair and save money—for what?”
Among those who “warmed themselves by her fire” this man had singularly become her friend and intimate. When they had time to explore each other’s minds, they came upon curious discoveries of hidden sympathies and mutual65 comprehensions which were rich treasures. They talked of absorbing things with frankness. He came to sit with her when others were not admitted because she was in pain or fatigued67. He added to neither her fatigue66 nor her pain, but rather helped her to forget them.
“For what?” he answered on this day. “Why not for your grandchildren?”
“They will have too much money. There are only four of them. They will make great marriages as their parents did,” she said. She paused a second before she added, “Unless our World Revolution has broken into flame by that time—And there are no longer any great marriages to make.”
For among the many things they dwelt on in their talks along, was the Chessboard, which was the Map of Europe, over which he had watched for many years certain hands hover68 in tentative experimenting as to the possibilities of the removal of the pieces from one square to another. She, too, from her youth had watched the game with an interest which had not waned in her maturity69, and which, in her days of sitting by the fire, had increased with every move the hovering70 hands made. She had been familiar with political parties and their leaders, she had met heroes and statesmen; she had seen an unimportant prince become an emperor, who, from his green and boastful youth, aspired71 to rule the world and whose theatrical72 obsession73 had been the sly jest of unwary nations, too carelessly sure of the advance of civilization and too indifferently self-indulgent to realize that a monomaniac, even if treated as a source of humour, is a perilous75 thing to leave unwatched. She had known France in all the glitter of its showy Empire, and had seen its imperial glories dispersed76 as mist. Russia she had watched with curiosity and dread77. On the day when the ruler, who had bestowed78 freedom on millions of his people, met his reward in the shattering bomb which tore him to fragments, she had been in St. Petersburg. A king, who had been assassinated79, she had known well and had well liked; an empress, whom a frenzied80 madman had stabbed to the heart, had been her friend.
Her years had been richly full of varied events, giving a strong and far-seeing mind reason for much unspoken thought of the kind which leaps in advance of its day’s experience and exact knowledge. She had learned when to speak and when to be silent, and she oftener chose silence. But she had never ceased gazing on the world with keen eyes, and reflecting upon its virtues81 and vagaries82, its depths and its shallows, with the help of a clear and temperate83 brain.
By her fire she sat, an attracting presence, though only fine, strong lines remained of beauty ravaged84 by illness and years. The “polished forehead” was furrowed85 by the chisel86 of suffering; the delicate high nose springing from her waxen, sunken face seemed somewhat eaglelike, but the face was still brilliant in its intensity87 of meaning and the carriage of her head was still noble. Not able to walk except with the assistance of a cane88, her once exquisite89 hands stiffened90 almost to uselessness, she held her court from her throne of mere power and strong charm. On the afternoons when people “ran in to warm themselves” by her fire, the talk was never dull and was often wonderful. There were those who came quietly into the room fresh from important scenes where subjects of weight to nations were being argued closely—perhaps almost fiercely. Sometimes the argument was continued over cups of perfect tea near the chair of the Duchess, and, howsoever far it led, she was able brilliantly to follow. With the aid of books and pamphlets and magazines, and the strong young man with the nice voice, who was her reader, she kept pace with each step of the march of the world.
It was, however, the modern note in her recollections of her world’s march in days long past, in which Coombe found mental food and fine flavour. The phrase, “in these days” expressed in her utterance91 neither disparagement92 nor regret. She who sat in state in a drawing-room lighted by wax candles did so as an affair of personal preference, and denied no claim of higher brilliance to electric illumination. Driving slowly through Hyde Park on sunny days when she was able to go out, her high-swung barouche hinted at no lofty disdain93 of petrol and motor power. At the close of her youth’s century, she looked forward with thrilled curiosity to the dawning wonders of the next.
“If the past had not held so much, one might not have learned to expect more,” was her summing up on a certain afternoon, when he came to report himself after one of his absences from England. “The most important discovery of the last fifty years has been the revelation that no man may any longer assume to speak the last word on any subject. The next man—almost any next man—may evolve more. Before that period all elderly persons were final in their dictum. They said to each other—and particularly to the young—‘It has not been done in my time—it was not done in my grandfather’s time. It has never been done. It never can be done’.”
“The note of today is ‘Since it has never been done, it will surely be done soon’,” said Coombe.
“Ah! we who began life in the most assured and respectable of reigns94 and centuries,” she answered him, “have seen much. But these others will see more. Crinolines, mushroom hats and large families seemed to promise a decorum peaceful to dullness; but there have been battles, murders and sudden deaths; there have been almost supernatural inventions and discoveries—there have been marvels95 of new doubts and faiths. When one sits and counts upon one’s fingers the amazements the 19th century has provided, one gasps96 and gazes with wide eyes into the future. I, for one, feel rather as though I had seen a calm milch cow sauntering—at first slowly—along a path, gradually evolve into a tiger—a genie97 with a hundred heads containing all the marvels of the world—a flying dragon with a thousand eyes! Oh, we have gone fast and far!”
“And we shall go faster and farther,” Coombe added.
“That is it,” she answered. “Are we going too fast?”
“At least so fast that we forget things it would be well for us to remember.” He had come in that day with a certain preoccupied98 grimness of expression which was not unknown to her. It was generally after one of his absences that he looked a shade grim.
“Such as—?” she inquired.
“Such as catastrophes99 in the history of the world, which forethought and wisdom might have prevented. The French Revolution is the obvious type of figure which lies close at hand so one picks it up. The French Revolution—its Reign48 of Terror—the orgies of carnage—the cataclysms100 of agony—need not have been, but they were. To put it in words of one syllable101.”
“What!” was her involuntary exclamation102. “You are seeking such similes103 as the French Revolution!”
“Who knows how far a madness may reach and what Reign of Terror may take form?” He sat down and drew an atlas104 towards him. It always lay upon the table on which all the Duchess desired was within reach. It was fat, convenient of form, and agreeable to look at in its cover of dull, green leather. Coombe’s gesture of drawing it towards him was a familiar one. It was frequently used as reference.
“The atlas again?” she said.
“Yes. Just now I can think of little else. I have realized too much.”
The continental journey had lasted a month. He had visited more countries than one in his pursuit of a study he was making of the way in which the wind was blowing particular straws. For long he had found much to give thought to in the trend of movement in one special portion of the Chessboard. It was that portion of it dominated by the ruler of whose obsession too careless nations made sly jest. This man he had known from his arrogant105 and unendearing youth. He had looked on with unbiassed curiosity at his development into arrogance106 so much greater than its proportions touched the grotesque107. The rest of the world had looked on also, but apparently, merely in the casual way which good-naturedly smiles and leaves to every man—even an emperor—the privilege of his own eccentricities108. Coombe had looked on with a difference, so also had his friend by her fireside. This man’s square of the Chessboard had long been the subject of their private talks and a cause for the drawing towards them of the green atlas. The moves he made, the methods of his ruling, the significance of these methods were the evidence they collected in their frequent arguments. Coombe had early begun to see the whole thing as a process—a life-long labour which was a means to a monstrous109 end.
“Through three weeks I have been marking how It grows,” he said; “a whole nation with the entire power of its commerce, its education, its science, its religion, guided towards one aim is a curious study. The very babes are born and bred and taught only that one thought may become an integral part of their being. The most innocent and blue eyed of them knows, without a shadow of doubt, that the world has but one reason for existence—that it may be conquered and ravaged by the country that gave them birth.”
“I have both heard and seen it,” she said. “One has smiled in spite of oneself, in listening to their simple, everyday talk.”
“In little schools—in large ones—in little churches, and in imposing ones, their Faith is taught and preached,” Coombe answered. “Sometimes one cannot believe one’s hearing. It is all so ingenuously110 and frankly111 unashamed—the mouthing, boasting, and threats of their piety112. There exists for them no God who is not the modest henchman of their emperor, and whose attention is not rivetted on their prowess with admiration113 and awe114. Apparently, they are His business, and He is well paid by being allowed to retain their confidence.”
“A lack of any sense of humour is a disastrous115 thing,” commented the Duchess. “The people of other nations may be fools—doubtless we all are—but there is no other which proclaims the fact abroad with such guileless outbursts of raucous116 exultation117.”
“And even we—you and I who have thought more than others” he said, restlessly, “even we forget and half smile. There has been too much smiling.”
She picked up an illustrated118 paper and opened it at a page filled by an ornate picture.
“See!” she said. “It is because he himself has made it so easy, with his amazing portraits of his big boots, and swords, and eruption119 of dangling120 orders. How can one help but smile when one finds him glaring at one from a newspaper in his superwarlike attitude, defying the Universe, with his comic moustachios and their ferocious121 waxed and bristling122 ends. No! One can scarcely believe that a man can be stupid enough not to realize that he looks as if he had deliberately123 made himself up to represent a sort of terrific military bogey124 intimating that, at he may pounce125 and say ‘Boo?”
“There lies the peril74. His pretensions126 seem too grotesque to be treated seriously. And, while he should be watched as a madman is watched, he is given a lifetime to we attack on a world that has ceased to believe in the sole thing which is real to himself.”
“You are fresh from observation.” There was new alertness in her eyes, though she had listened before.
“I tell you it grows!” he gave back and lightly struck the table in emphasis. “Do you remember Carlyle—?”
“The French Revolution again?”
“Yes. Do you recall this? ‘Do not fires, fevers, seeds, chemical mixtures, go on growing. Observe, too, that each grows with a rapidity proportioned to the madness and unhealthiness there is in it.’ A ruler who, in an unaggressive age such as this, can concentrate his life and his people’s on the one ambition of plunging127 the world in an ocean of blood, in which his own monomania can bathe in triumph—Good God! there is madness and unhealthiness to flourish in!”
“The world!” she said. “Yes—it will be the world.”
“See,” he said, with a curve of the finger which included most of the Map of Europe. “Here are countries engaged—like the Bandarlog—in their own affairs. Quarrelling, snatching things from each other, blustering128 or amusing themselves with transitory pomps and displays of power. Here is a huge empire whose immense, half-savage population has seethed129 for centuries in its hidden, boiling cauldron of rebellion. Oh! it has seethed! And only cruelties have repressed it. Now and then it has boiled over in assassination130 in high places, and one has wondered how long its autocratic splendour could hold its own. Here are small, fierce, helpless nations overrun and outraged131 into a chronic132 state of secret ever-ready hatred133. Here are innocent, small countries, defenceless through their position and size. Here is France rich, careless, super-modern and cynic. Here is England comfortable to stolidity134, prosperous and secure to dullness in her own half belief in a world civilization, which no longer argues in terms of blood and steel. And here—in a well-entrenched position in the midst of it all—within but a few hundreds of miles of weakness, complicity, disastrous unreadiness and panic-stricken uncertainty135 of purpose, sits this Man of One Dream—who believes God Himself his vassal136. Here he sits.”
“Yes his One Dream. He has had no other.” The Duchess was poring over the map also. They were as people pondering over a strange and terrible game.
“It is his monomania. It possessed him when he was a boy. What Napoleon hoped to accomplish he has BELIEVED he could attain137 by concentrating all the power of people upon preparation for it—and by not flinching138 from pouring forth their blood as if it were the refuse water of his gutters139.”
Coombe touched the map first at one point and then at another.
“See!” he said again, and this time savagely141. “This empire flattered and entangled142 by cunning, this country irritated, this deceived, this drawn143 into argument, this and this and this treated with professed144 friendship, these tricked and juggled145 with—And then, when his plans are ripe and he is made drunk with belief in himself—just one sodden146 insult or monstrous breach147 of faith, which all humanity must leap to resent—And there is our World Revolution.”
The Duchess sat upright in her chair.
“Why did you let your youth pass?” she said. “If you had begun early enough, you could hare made the country listen to you. Why did you do it?”
“For the same reason that all selfish grief and pleasure and indifference148 let the world go by. And I am not sure they would have listened. I speak freely enough now in some quarters. They listen, but they do nothing. There is a warning in the fact that, as he has seen his youth leave him without giving him his opportunity, he has been a disappointed man inflamed149 and made desperate. At the outset, he felt that he must provide the world with some fiction of excuse. As his obsession and arrogance have swollen150, he sees himself and his ambition as reason enough. No excuse is needed. Deutschland uber alles—is sufficient.”
He pushed the map away and his fire died down. He spoke almost in his usual manner.
“The conquest of the world,” he said. “He is a great fool. What would he do with his continents if he got them?”
“What, indeed,” pondered her grace. “Continents—even kingdoms are not like kittens in a basket, or puppies to be trained to come to heel.”
“It is part of his monomania that he can persuade himself that they are little more.” Coombe’s eye-glasses had been slowly swaying from the ribbon in his fingers. He let them continue to sway a moment and then closed them with a snap.
“He is a great fool,” he said. “But we,—oh, my friend—and by ‘we’ I mean the rest of the Map of Europe—we are much greater fools. A mad dog loose among us and we sit—and smile.”
And this was in the days before the house with the cream-coloured front had put forth its first geraniums and lobelias in Feather’s window boxes. Robin151 was not born.
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appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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veered
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| v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的过去式和过去分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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commendable
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obeisance
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| n.鞠躬，敬礼 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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forth
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joyous
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mere
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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anthem
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| n.圣歌，赞美诗，颂歌 | |
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adulatory
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| adj. 谄媚的, 奉承的, 阿谀的 | |
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triumphant
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curb
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judgment
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likeness
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tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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varied
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panoramas
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continental
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rumours
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impartially
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conjecture
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inevitably
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persiflage
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conjectural
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evasion
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inhumanly
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exasperating
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waned
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imposing
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mellowed
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grandeur
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depreciate
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fickle
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whim
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WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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39
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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40
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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41
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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42
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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43
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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44
revolve
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| vi.(使)旋转；循环出现 | |
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45
axis
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| n.轴，轴线，中心线；坐标轴，基准线 | |
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46
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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47
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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48
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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49
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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50
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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51
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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53
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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54
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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55
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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56
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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57
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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58
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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59
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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60
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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61
intimacies
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| 亲密( intimacy的名词复数 )； 密切； 亲昵的言行； 性行为 | |
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62
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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63
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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64
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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65
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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66
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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67
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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68
hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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69
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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70
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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71
aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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73
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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74
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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75
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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76
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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77
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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78
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
assassinated
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| v.暗杀( assassinate的过去式和过去分词 )；中伤；诋毁；破坏 | |
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80
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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81
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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82
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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83
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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84
ravaged
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| 毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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85
furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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87
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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88
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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89
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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90
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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91
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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92
disparagement
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| n.轻视，轻蔑 | |
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93
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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94
reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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95
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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96
gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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97
genie
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| n.妖怪，神怪 | |
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98
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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99
catastrophes
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| n.灾祸( catastrophe的名词复数 )；灾难；不幸事件；困难 | |
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100
cataclysms
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| n.（突然降临的）大灾难( cataclysm的名词复数 ) | |
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101
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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102
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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103
similes
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| （使用like或as等词语的）明喻( simile的名词复数 ) | |
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104
atlas
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| n.地图册，图表集 | |
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105
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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106
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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107
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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108
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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109
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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110
ingenuously
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| adv.率直地，正直地 | |
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111
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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112
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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113
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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114
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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115
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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116
raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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117
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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118
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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119
eruption
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| n.火山爆发；（战争等）爆发；（疾病等）发作 | |
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120
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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121
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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122
bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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123
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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124
bogey
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| n.令人谈之变色之物；妖怪，幽灵 | |
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125
pounce
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| n.猛扑；v.猛扑，突然袭击，欣然同意 | |
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126
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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127
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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128
blustering
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| adj.狂风大作的，狂暴的v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的现在分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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129
seethed
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| （液体）沸腾( seethe的过去式和过去分词 )； 激动，大怒； 强压怒火； 生闷气(~with sth|~ at sth) | |
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130
assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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131
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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132
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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133
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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134
stolidity
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| n.迟钝，感觉麻木 | |
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135
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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136
vassal
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| n.附庸的；属下；adj.奴仆的 | |
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137
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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138
flinching
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的现在分词 ) | |
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139
gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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140
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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141
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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142
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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143
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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144
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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145
juggled
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| v.歪曲( juggle的过去式和过去分词 )；耍弄；有效地组织；尽力同时应付（两个或两个以上的重要工作或活动） | |
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146
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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147
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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148
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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149
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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151
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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