It is now three months since Dr. Proudie began his reign1, and changes have already been effected in the diocese which show at least the energy of an active mind. Among other things absentee clergymen have been favoured with hints much too strong to be overlooked. Poor dear old Bishop3 Grantly had on this matter been too lenient4, and the archdeacon had never been inclined to he severe with those who were absent on reputable pretences6, and who provided for their duties in a liberal way.
Among the greatest of the diocesan sinners in this respect was Dr. Vesey Stanhope. Years had now passed since he had done a day’s duty, and yet there was no reason against his doing duty except a want of inclination7 on his own part. He held a prebendal stall in the diocese, one of the best residences in the close, and the two large rectories of Crabtree Canonicorum and Stogpingum. Indeed, he had the cure of three parishes, for that of Eiderdown was joined to Stogpingum. He had resided in Italy for twelve years. His first going there had been attributed to a sore throat, and that sore throat, though never repeated in any violent manner, had stood him in such stead that it had enabled him to live in easy idleness ever since.
He had now been summoned home — not, indeed, with rough violence, or by any peremptory8 command, but by a mandate9 which he found himself unable to disregard. Mr. Slope had written to him by the bishop’s desire. In the first place, the bishop much wanted the valuable co-operation of Dr. Vesey Stanhope in the diocese; in the next, the bishop thought it his imperative10 duty to become personally acquainted with the most conspicuous12 of his diocesan clergy2; then the bishop thought it essentially13 necessary for Dr. Stanhope’s own interests that Dr. Stanhope should, at any rate for a time, return to Barchester; and lastly, it was said that so strong a feeling was at the present moment evinced by the hierarchs of the church with reference to the absence of its clerical members that it behoved Dr. Vesey Stanhope not to allow his name to stand among those which would probably in a few months be submitted to the councils of the nation.
There was something so ambiguously frightful14 in this last threat that Dr. Stanhope determined15 to spend two or three summer months at his residence in Barchester. His rectories were inhabited by his curates, and he felt himself from disuse to be unfit for parochial duty; but his prebendal home was kept empty for him, and he thought it probable that he might be able now and again to preach a prebendal sermon. He arrived, therefore, with all his family at Barchester, and he and they must be introduced to my readers.
The great family characteristic of the Stanhopes might probably be said to be heartlessness, but this want of feeling was, in most of them, accompanied by so great an amount of good nature as to make itself but little noticeable to the world. They were so prone17 to oblige their neighbours that their neighbours failed to perceive how indifferent to them was the happiness and well-being18 of those around them. The Stanhopes would visit you in your sickness (provided it were not contagious), would bring you oranges, French novels, and the last new bit of scandal, and then hear of your death or your recovery with an equally indifferent composure. Their conduct to each other was the same as to the world; they bore and forbore; and there was sometimes, as will be seen, much necessity for forbearing; but their love among themselves rarely reached above this. It is astonishing how much each of the family was able to do, and how much each did, to prevent the well-being of the other four.
For there were five in all; the doctor, namely, and Mrs. Stanhope, two daughters, and one son. The doctor, perhaps, was the least singular and most estimable of them all, and yet such good qualities as he possessed19 were all negative. He was a good-looking rather plethoric20 gentleman of about sixty years of age. His hair was snow-white, very plentiful21, and somewhat like wool of the finest description. His whiskers were very large and very white and gave to his face the appearance of a benevolent22, sleepy old lion. His dress was always unexceptionable. Although he had lived. so many years in Italy it was invariably of a decent clerical hue23, but it never was hyperclerical. He was a man not given to much talking, but what little he did say was generally well said. His reading seldom went beyond romances and poetry of the lightest and not always most moral description. He was thoroughly24 a bon vivant; an accomplished25 judge of wine, though he never drank to excess; and a most inexorable critic in all affairs touching26 the kitchen. He had had much to forgive in his own family, since a family had grown up around him, and had forgiven everything — except inattention to his dinner. His weakness in that respect was now fully27 understood, and his temper but seldom tried. As Dr. Stanhope was a clergyman, it may be supposed that his religious convictions made up a considerable part of his character, but this was not so. That he had religious convictions must be believed, but he rarely obtruded28 them, even on his children. This abstinence on his part was not systematic29 but very characteristic of the man. It was not that he had predetermined never to influence their thoughts, but he was so habitually30 idle that his time for doing so had never come till the opportunity for doing so was gone forever. Whatever conviction the father may have had, the children were at any rate but indifferent members of the church from which he drew his income.
Such was Dr. Stanhope. The features of Mrs. Stanhope’s character were even less plainly marked than those of her lord. The far niente of her Italian life had entered into her very soul and brought her to regard a state of inactivity as the only earthly good. In manner and appearance she was exceedingly prepossessing. She had been a beauty, and even now, at fifty-five, she was a handsome woman. Her dress was always perfect: she never dressed but once in the day and never appeared till between three and four, but when she did appear, she appeared at her best. Whether the toil31 rested partly with her, or wholly with her handmaid, it is not for such a one as the author even to imagine. The structure of her attire32 was always elaborate and yet never over-laboured. She was rich in apparel but not bedizened with finery; her ornaments33 were costly35, rare, and such as could not fail to attract notice but they did not look as though worn with that purpose. She well knew the great architectural secret of decorating her constructions and never descended36 to construct a decoration. But when we have said that Mrs. Stanhope knew how to dress and used her knowledge daily, we have said all. Other purpose in life she had none. It was something, indeed, that she did not interfere37 with the purposes of others. In early life she had undergone great trials with reference to the doctor’s dinners, but for the last ten or twelve years her elder daughter Charlotte had taken that labour off her hands, and she had had little to trouble her — little, that is, till the edict for this terrible English journey had gone forth38: since then, indeed, her life had been laborious39 enough. For such a one, the toil of being carried from the shores of Como to the city of Barchester is more than labour enough, let the care of the carriers be ever so vigilant40. Mrs. Stanhope had been obliged to have every one of her dresses taken in from the effects of the journey.
Charlotte Stanhope was at this time about thirty-five years old, and whatever may have been her faults, she had none of those which belong particularly to old young ladies. She neither dressed young, nor talked young, nor indeed looked young. She appeared to be perfectly41 content with her time of life and in no way affected42 the graces of youth. She was a fine young woman, and had she been a man, would have been a very fine young man. All that was done in the house, and that was not done by servants, was done by her. She gave the orders, paid the bills, hired and dismissed the domestics, made the tea, carved the meat, and managed everything in the Stanhope household. She, and she alone, could ever induce her father to look into the state of his worldly concerns. She, and she alone, could in any degree control the absurdities43 of her sister. She, and she alone, prevented the whole family from falling into utter disrepute and beggary. It was by her advice that they now found themselves very unpleasantly situated45 in Barchester.
So far, the character of Charlotte Stanhope is not unprepossessing. But it remains46 to be said that the influence which she had in her family, though it had been used to a certain extent for their worldly well-being, had not been used to their real benefit, as it might have been. She had aided her father in his indifference47 to his professional duties, counselling him that his livings were as much his individual property as the estates of his elder brother were the property of that worthy48 peer. She had for years past stifled49 every little rising wish for a return to England which the doctor had from time to time expressed. She had encouraged her mother in her idleness, in order that she herself might be mistress and manager of the Stanhope household. She had encouraged and fostered the follies50 of her sister, though she was always willing, and often able, to protect her from their probable result. She had done her best and had thoroughly succeeded in spoiling her brother, and turning him loose upon the world an idle man without a profession and without a shilling that he could call his own.
Miss Stanhope was a clever woman, able to talk on most subjects, and quite indifferent as to what the subject was. She prided herself on her freedom from English prejudice and, she might have added, from feminine delicacy51. On religion she was a pure free-thinker, and with much want of true affection, delighted to throw out her own views before the troubled mind of her father. To have shaken what remained of his Church of England faith would have gratified her much, but the idea of his abandoning his preferment in the church had never once presented itself to her mind. How could he indeed, when he had no income from any other source?
But the two most prominent members of the family still remain to be described. The second child had been christened Madeline and had been a great beauty. We need not say had been, for she was never more beautiful than at the time of which we write, though her person for many years had been disfigured by an accident. It is unnecessary that we should give in detail the early history of Madeline Stanhope. She had gone to Italy when about seventeen years of age and had been allowed to make the most of her surpassing beauty in the salons52 of Milan and among the crowded villas54 along the shores of the Lake of Como. She had become famous for adventures in which her character was just not lost and had destroyed the hearts of a dozen cavaliers without once being touched in her own. Blood had flowed in quarrels about her charms, and she had heard of these encounters with pleasurable excitement. It had been told of her that on one occasion she had stood by in the disguise of a page and had seen her lover fall.
As is so often the case, she had married the very worst of those who sought her hand. Why she had chosen Paulo Neroni, a man of no birth and no property, a mere55 captain in the Pope’s guard, one who had come up to Milan either simply as an adventurer or else as a spy, a man of harsh temper and oily manners, mean in figure, swarthy in face, and so false in words as to be hourly detected, need not now be told. When the moment for doing so came, she had probably no alternative. He, at any rate, had become her husband, and after a prolonged honeymoon56 among the lakes, they had gone together to Rome, the papal captain having vainly endeavoured to induce his wife to remain behind him.
Six months afterwards she arrived at her father’s house a cripple, and a mother. She had arrived without even notice, with hardly clothes to cover her, and without one of those many ornaments which had graced her bridal trousseau. Her baby was in the arms of a poor girl from Milan, whom she had taken in exchange for the Roman maid who had accompanied her thus far, and who had then, as her mistress said, become homesick and had returned. It was clear that the lady had determined that there should be no witness to tell stories of her life in Rome.
She had fallen, she said, in ascending57 a ruin, and had fatally injured the sinews of her knee; so fatally that when she stood, she lost eight inches of her accustomed height; so fatally that when she essayed to move, she could only drag herself painfully along, with protruded58 hip59 and extended foot, in a manner less graceful60 than that of a hunchback. She had consequently made up her mind, once and forever, that she would never stand and never attempt to move herself.
Stories were not slow to follow her, averring61 that she had been cruelly ill-used by Neroni and that to his violence had she owed her accident. Be that as it may, little had been said about her husband, but that little had made it clearly intelligible62 to the family that Signor Neroni was to be seen and heard of no more. There was no question as to readmitting the poor, ill-used beauty to her old family rights, no question as to adopting her infant daughter beneath the Stanhope roof-tree. Though heartless, the Stanhopes were not selfish. The two were taken in, petted, made much of, for a time all but adored, and then felt by the two parents to be great nuisances in the house. But in the house the lady was, and there she remained, having her own way, though that way was not very conformable with the customary usages of an English clergyman.
Madame Neroni, though forced to give up all motion in the world, had no intention whatever of giving up the world itself. The beauty of her face was uninjured, and that beauty was of a peculiar63 kind. Her copious64 rich brown hair was worn in Grecian bandeaux round her head, displaying as much as possible of her forehead and cheeks. Her forehead, though rather low, was very beautiful from its perfect contour and pearly whiteness. Her eyes were long and large and marvellously bright; might I venture to say bright as Lucifer’s, I should perhaps best express the depth of their brilliancy. They were dreadful eyes to look at, such as would absolutely deter16 any man of quiet mind and easy spirit from attempting a passage of arms with such foes65. There was talent in them, and the fire of passion and the play of wit, but there was no love. Cruelty was there instead, and courage, a desire of masterhood, cunning, and a wish for mischief66. And yet, as eyes, they were very beautiful. The eyelashes were long and perfect, and the long, steady, unabashed gaze with which she would look into the face of her admirer fascinated while it frightened him. She was a basilisk from whom an ardent67 lover of beauty could make no escape. Her nose and mouth and teeth and chin and neck and bust68 were perfect, much more so at twenty-eight than they had been at eighteen. What wonder that with such charms still glowing in her face, and with such deformity destroying her figure, she should resolve to be seen, but only to be seen reclining on a sofa.
Her resolve had not been carried out without difficulty. She had still frequented the opera at Milan; she had still been seen occasionally in the salons of the noblesse; she had caused herself to be carried in and out from her carriage, and that in such a manner as in no wise to disturb her charms, disarrange her dress, or expose her deformities. Her sister always accompanied her and a maid, a manservant also, and on state occasions, two. It was impossible that her purpose could have been achieved with less; and yet, poor as she was, she had achieved her purpose. And then again the more dissolute Italian youths of Milan frequented the Stanhope villa53 and surrounded her couch, not greatly to her father’s satisfaction. Sometimes his spirit would rise, a dark spot would show itself on his cheek, and he would rebel, but Charlotte would assuage69 him with some peculiar triumph of her culinary art and all again would be smooth for awhile.
Madeline affected all manner of rich and quaint11 devices in the garniture of her room, her person, and her feminine belongings70. In nothing was this more apparent than in the visiting card which she had prepared for her use. For such an article one would say that she, in her present state, could have but small need, seeing how improbable it was that she should make a morning call: but not such was her own opinion. Her card was surrounded by a deep border of gilding71; on this she had imprinted72, in three lines
La Signora Madeline Vesey Neroni. — Nata Stanhope.
And over the name she had a bright gilt73 coronet, which certainly looked very magnificent. How she had come to concoct74 such a name for herself it would be difficult to explain. Her father had been christened Vesey as another man is christened Thomas, and she had no more right to assume it than would have the daughter of a Mr. Josiah Jones to call herself Mrs. Josiah Smith, on marrying a man of the latter name. The gold coronet was equally out of place and perhaps inserted with even less excuse. Paulo Neroni had had not the faintest title to call himself a scion75 of even Italian nobility. Had the pair met in England Neroni would probably have been a count, but they had met in Italy, and any such pretence5 on his part would have been simply ridiculous. A coronet, however, was a pretty ornament34, and if it could solace76 a poor cripple to have such on her card, who would begrudge77 it to her?
Of her husband, or of his individual family, she never spoke78, but with her admirers she would often allude79 in a mysterious way to her married life and isolated80 state and, pointing to her daughter, would call her the last of the blood of the emperors, thus referring Neroni’s extraction to the old Roman family from which the worst of the Caesars sprang.
The “signora” was not without talent and not without a certain sort of industry; she was an indomitable letter-writer, and her letters were worth the postage: they were full of wit, mischief, satire81, love, latitudinarian philosophy, free religion, and, sometimes, alas82, loose ribaldry. The subject, however, depended entirely83 on the recipient84, and she was prepared to correspond with anyone but moral young ladies or stiff old women. She wrote also a kind of poetry, generally in Italian, and short romances, generally in French. She read much of a desultory85 sort of literature and as a modern linguist86 had really made great proficiency87. Such was the lady who had now come to wound the hearts of the men of Barchester.
Ethelbert Stanhope was in some respects like his younger sister, but he was less inestimable as a man than she as a woman. His great fault was an entire absence of that principle which should have induced him, as the son of a man without fortune, to earn his own bread. Many attempts had been made to get him to do so, but these had all been frustrated88, not so much by idleness on his part as by a disinclination to exert himself in any way not to his taste. He had been educated at Eton and had been intended for the Church, but he had left Cambridge in disgust after a single term and notified to his father his intention to study for the bar. Preparatory to that, he thought it well that he should attend a German university, and consequently went to Leipzig. There he remained two years and brought away a knowledge of German and a taste for the fine arts. He still, however, intended himself for the bar, took chambers89, engaged himself to sit at the feet of a learned pundit90, and spent a season in London. He there found that all his aptitudes91 inclined him to the life of an artist, and he determined to live by painting. With this object he returned to Milan, and had himself rigged out for Rome. As a painter he might have earned his bread, for he wanted only diligence to excel, but when at Rome his mind was carried away by other things: he soon wrote home for money, saying that he had been converted to the Mother Church, that he was already an acolyte92 of the Jesuits, and that he was about to start with others to Palestine on a mission for converting Jews. He did go to Judea, but being unable to convert the Jews, was converted by them. He again wrote home, to say that Moses was the only giver of perfect laws to the world, that the coming of the true Messiah was at hand, that great things were doing in Palestine, and that he had met one of the family of Sidonia, a most remarkable93 man, who was now on his way to western Europe, and whom he had induced to deviate94 from his route with the object of calling at the Stanhope villa. Ethelbert then expressed his hope that his mother and sisters would listen to this wonderful prophet. His father he knew could not do so from pecuniary95 considerations. This Sidonia, however, did not take so strong a fancy to him as another of that family once did to a young English nobleman. At least he provided him with no heaps of gold as large as lions, so that the Judaized Ethelbert was again obliged to draw on the revenues of the Christian96 Church.
It is needless to tell how the father swore that he would send no more money and receive no Jew, nor how Charlotte declared that Ethelbert could not be left penniless in Jerusalem, and how “La Signora Neroni” resolved to have Sidonia at her feet. The money was sent, and the Jew did come. The Jew did come, but he was not at all to the taste of “La Signora.” He was a dirty little old man, and though he had provided no golden lions, he had, it seems, relieved young Stanhope’s necessities. He positively97 refused to leave the villa till he had got a bill from the doctor on his London bankers.
Ethelbert did not long remain a Jew. He soon reappeared at the villa without prejudices on the subject of his religion and with a firm resolve to achieve fame and fortune as a sculptor98. He brought with him some models which he had originated at Rome and which really gave such fair promise that his father was induced to go to further expense in furthering these views. Ethelbert opened an establishment, or rather took lodgings99 and a workshop, at Carrara, and there spoilt much marble and made some few pretty images. Since that period, now four years ago, he had alternated between Carrara and the villa, but his sojourns100 at the workshop became shorter and shorter and those at the villa longer and longer. ’Twas no wonder, for Carrara is not a spot in which an Englishman would like to dwell.
When the family started for England, he had resolved not to be left behind and, with the assistance of his elder sister, had carried his point against his father’s wishes. It was necessary, he said, that he should come to England for orders. How otherwise was he to bring his profession to account?
In personal appearance Ethelbert Stanhope was the most singular of beings. He was certainly very handsome. He had his sister Madeline’s eyes, without their stare and without their hard, cunning, cruel firmness. They were also very much lighter101 and of so light and clear a blue as to make his face remarkable, if nothing else did so. On entering a room with him, Ethelbert’s blue eyes would be the first thing you would see, and on leaving it almost the last you would forget. His light hair was very long and silky, coming down over his coat. His beard had been prepared in holy land, and was patriarchal. He never shaved and rarely trimmed it. It was glossy102, soft, clean, and altogether not unprepossessing. It was such that ladies might desire to reel it off and work it into their patterns in lieu of floss silk. His complexion103 was fair and almost pink; he was small in height and slender in limb, but well-made; and his voice was of peculiar sweetness.
In manner and dress he was equally remarkable. He had none of the mauvaise honte of an Englishman. He required no introduction to make himself agreeable to any person. He habitually addressed strangers, ladies as well as men, without any such formality, and in doing so never seemed to meet with rebuke104. His costume cannot be described because it was so various, but it was always totally opposed in every principle of colour and construction to the dress of those with whom he for the time consorted105.
He was habitually addicted106 to making love to ladies, and did so without any scruples107 of conscience, or any idea that such a practice was amiss. He had no heart to touch himself, and was literally108 unaware109 that humanity was subject to such an infliction110. He had not thought much about it, but, had he been asked, would have said that ill-treating a lady’s heart meant injuring her promotion111 in the world. His principles therefore forbade him to pay attention to a girl if he thought any man was present whom it might suit her to marry. In this manner his good nature frequently interfered112 with his amusement, but he had no other motive113 in abstaining114 from the fullest declarations of love to every girl that pleased his eye.
Bertie Stanhope, as he was generally called, was, however, popular with both sexes — and with Italians as well as English. His circle of acquaintance was very large and embraced people of all sorts. He had no respect for rank and no aversion to those below him. He had lived on familiar terms with English peers, German shopkeepers, and Roman priests. All people were nearly alike to him. He was above, or rather below, all prejudices. No virtue115 could charm him, no vice44 shock him. He had about him a natural good manner, which seemed to qualify him for the highest circles, and yet he was never out of place in the lowest. He had no principle, no regard for others, no self-respect, no desire to be other than a drone in the hive, if only he could, as a drone, get what honey was sufficient for him. Of honey, in his latter days, it may probably be presaged116, that he will have but short allowance.
Such was the family of the Stanhopes, who, at this period, suddenly joined themselves to the ecclesiastical circle of Barchester close. Any stranger union it would be impossible perhaps to conceive. And it was not as though they all fell down into the cathedral precincts hitherto unknown and untalked of. In such case, no amalgamation117 would have been at all probable between the new-comers and either the Proudie set or the Grantly set. But such was far from being the case. The Stanhopes were all known by name in Barchester, and Barchester was prepared to receive them with open arms. The doctor was one of her prebendaries, one of her rectors, one of her pillars of strength; and was, moreover, counted on as a sure ally both by Proudies and Grantlys.
He himself was the brother of one peer, and his wife was the sister of another — and both these peers were lords of Whiggish tendency, with whom the new bishop had some sort of alliance. This was sufficient to give to Mr. Slope high hope that he might enlist118 Dr. Stanhope on his side, before his enemies could outmanoeuvre him. On the other hand, the old dean had many many years ago, in the days of the doctor’s clerical energies, been instrumental in assisting him in his views as to preferment; and many many years ago also, the two doctors, Stanhope and Grantly, had, as young parsons, been joyous119 together in the common-rooms of Oxford120. Dr. Grantly, consequently, did not doubt but that the newcomer would range himself under his banners.
Little did any of them dream of what ingredients the Stanhope family was now composed.
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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mandate
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| n.托管地；命令，指示 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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deter
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| vt.阻止，使不敢，吓住 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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well-being
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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plethoric
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| adj.过多的，多血症的 | |
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plentiful
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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touching
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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obtruded
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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32
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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33
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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34
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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35
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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36
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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37
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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38
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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39
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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40
vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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41
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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42
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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43
absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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44
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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45
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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46
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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47
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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48
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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49
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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50
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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51
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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52
salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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53
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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54
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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55
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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56
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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57
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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58
protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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60
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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61
averring
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| v.断言( aver的现在分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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63
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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65
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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68
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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69
assuage
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| v.缓和，减轻，镇定 | |
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70
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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71
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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72
imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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73
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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74
concoct
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| v.调合，制造 | |
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75
scion
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| n.嫩芽，子孙 | |
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76
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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77
begrudge
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| vt.吝啬，羡慕 | |
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78
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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79
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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80
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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81
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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82
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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83
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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84
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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85
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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86
linguist
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| n.语言学家；精通数种外国语言者 | |
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87
proficiency
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| n.精通，熟练，精练 | |
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88
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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89
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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90
pundit
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| n.博学之人；权威 | |
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91
aptitudes
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| （学习方面的）才能，资质，天资( aptitude的名词复数 ) | |
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92
acolyte
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| n.助手，侍僧 | |
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93
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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94
deviate
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| v.(from)背离，偏离 | |
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95
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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96
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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97
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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98
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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99
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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100
sojourns
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| n.逗留，旅居( sojourn的名词复数 ) | |
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101
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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102
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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103
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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104
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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105
consorted
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| v.结伴( consort的过去式和过去分词 )；交往；相称；调和 | |
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106
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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107
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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108
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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109
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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110
infliction
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| n.（强加于人身的）痛苦，刑罚 | |
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111
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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112
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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113
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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114
abstaining
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| 戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的现在分词 )； 弃权（不投票） | |
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115
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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116
presaged
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| v.预示，预兆( presage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
amalgamation
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| n.合并，重组；；汞齐化 | |
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118
enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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119
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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120
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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