“Bishop1 of Barchester, I presume?” said Bertie Stanhope, putting out his hand frankly2; “I am delighted to make your acquaintance. We are in rather close quarters here, a’nt we?”
In truth they were. They had been crowded up behind the head of the sofa — the bishop in waiting to receive his guest, and the other in carrying her — and they now had hardly room to move themselves.
The bishop gave his hand quickly, made his little studied bow, and was delighted to make — He couldn’t go on, for he did not know whether his friend was a signor, or a count or a prince.
“My sister really puts you all to great trouble,” said Bertie.
“Not at all!” The bishop was delighted to have the opportunity of welcoming La Signora Vicinironi — so at least he said — and attempted to force his way round to the front of the sofa. He had, at any rate, learnt that his strange guests were brother and sister. The man, he presumed, must be Signor Vicinironi — or count, or prince, as it might be. It was wonderful what good English he spoke3. There was just a twang of foreign accent, and no more.
“Do you like Barchester, on the whole?” asked Bertie.
The bishop, looking dignified4, said that he did like Barchester.
“You’ve not been here very long, I believe,” said Bertie.
“No — not long,” said the bishop and tried again to make his way between the back of the sofa and heavy rector, who was staring over it at the grimaces5 of the signora.
“You weren’t a bishop before, were you?”
Dr. Proudie explained that this was the first diocese he had held.
“Ah — I thought so,” said Bertie, “but you are changed about sometimes, a’nt you?”
‘Translations are occasionally made,” said Dr. Proudie, “but not so frequently as in former days.”
“They’ve cut them all down to pretty nearly the same figure, haven’t they?” said Bertie.
To this the bishop could not bring himself to make any answer, but again attempted to move the rector.
“But the work, I suppose, is different?” continued Bertie. “Is there much to do here, at Barchester?” This was said exactly in the tone that a young Admiralty clerk might use in asking the same question of a brother acolyte6 at the Treasury7.
“The work of a bishop of the Church of England,” said Dr. Proudie with considerable dignity, “is not easy. The responsibility which he has to bear is very great indeed.”
“Is it?” said Bertie, opening wide his wonderful blue eyes. “Well, I never was afraid of responsibility. I once had thoughts of being a bishop, myself.”
“Had thoughts of being a bishop!” said Dr. Proudie, much amazed.
That is, a parson — a parson first, you know, and a bishop afterwards. If I had once begun, I’d have stuck to it. But, on the whole, I like the Church of Rome the best.”
The bishop could not discuss the point, so he remained silent.
“Now, there’s my father,” continued Bertie; “he hasn’t stuck to it. I fancy he didn’t like saying the same thing over so often. By the by, Bishop, have you seen my father?”
The bishop was more amazed than ever. Had he seen his father? “No,” he replied; he had not yet had the pleasure: he hoped he might; and, as he said so, he resolved to bear heavy on that fat, immovable rector, if ever he had the power of doing so.
“He’s in the room somewhere,” said Bertie, “and he’ll turn up soon. By the by, do you know much about the Jews?”
At last the bishop saw a way out. “I beg your pardon,” said he, “but I’m forced to go round the room.”
“Well — I believe I’ll follow in your wake,” said Bertie. “Terribly hot — isn’t it?” This he addressed to the fat rector with whom he had brought himself into the closest contact. “They’ve got this sofa into the worst possible part of the room; suppose we move it. Take care, Madeline.”
The sofa had certainly been so placed that those who were behind it found great difficulty in getting out; there was but a narrow gangway, which one person could stop. This was a bad arrangement, and one which Bertie thought it might be well to improve.
“Take care, Madeline,” said he, and turning to the fat rector, added, “Just help me with a slight push.”
The rector’s weight was resting on the sofa and unwittingly lent all its impetus8 to accelerate and increase the motion which Bertie intentionally9 originated. The sofa rushed from its moorings and ran half-way into the middle of the room. Mrs. Proudie was standing10 with Mr. Slope in front of the signora, and had been trying to be condescending11 and sociable13; but she was not in the very best of tempers, for she found that, whenever she spoke to the lady, the lady replied by speaking to Mr. Slope. Mr. Slope was a favourite, no doubt, but Mrs. Proudie had no idea of being less thought of than the chaplain. She was beginning to be stately, stiff, and offended, when unfortunately the castor of the sofa caught itself in her lace train and carried away there is no saying how much of her garniture. Gathers were heard to go, stitches to crack, plaits to fly open, flounces were seen to fall, and breadths to expose themselves; a long ruin of rent lace disfigured the carpet and still clung to the vile14 wheel on which the sofa moved.
So, when a granite15 battery is raised, excellent to the eyes of warfaring men, is its strength and symmetry admired. It is the work of years. Its neat embrasures, its finished parapets, its casemated stories show all the skill of modern science. But, anon, a small spark is applied16 to the treacherous17 fusee — a cloud of dust arises to the heavens — and then nothing is to be seen but dirt and dust and ugly fragments.
We know what was the wrath18 of Juno when her beauty was despised. We know to what storms of passion even celestial19 minds can yield. As Juno may have looked at Paris on Mount Ida, so did Mrs. Proudie look on Ethelbert Stanhope when he pushed the leg of the sofa into her lace train.
“Oh, you idiot, Bertie!” said the signora, seeing what had been done and what were to be the consequences.
“Idiot!” re-echoed Mrs. Proudie, as though the word were not half strong enough to express the required meaning; “I’ll let him know —” and then looking round to learn, at a glance, the worst, she saw that at present it behoved her to collect the scattered20 débris of her dress.
Bertie, when he saw what he had done, rushed over the sofa and threw himself on one knee before the offended lady. His object, doubtless, was to liberate21 the torn lace from the castor, but he looked as though he were imploring22 pardon from a goddess.
“Unhand it, sir!” said Mrs. Proudie. From what scrap23 of dramatic poetry she had extracted the word cannot be said, but it must have rested on her memory and now seemed opportunely24 dignified for the occasion.
“I’ll fly to the looms25 of the fairies to repair the damage, if you’ll only forgive me,” said Ethelbert, still on his knees.
“Unhand it, sir!” said Mrs. Proudie with redoubled emphasis and all but furious wrath. This allusion26 to the fairies was a direct mockery and intended to turn her into ridicule27. So at least it seemed to her. “Unhand it, sir!” she almost screamed.
“It’s not me; it’s the cursed sofa,” said Bertie, looking imploringly28 in her face and holding up both his hands to show that he was not touching29 her belongings30, but still remaining on his knees.
Hereupon the Signora laughed; not loud, indeed, but yet audibly. And as the tigress bereft31 of her young will turn with equal anger on any within reach, so did Mrs. Proudie turn upon her female guest.
“Madam!” she said — and it is beyond the power of prose to tell of the fire which flashed from her eyes.
The signora stared her full in the face for a moment, and then turning to her brother said playfully, “Bertie, you idiot, get up.”
By this time the bishop, and Mr. Slope, and her three daughters were around her, and had collected together the wide ruins of her magnificence. The girls fell into circular rank behind their mother, and thus following her and carrying out the fragments, they left the reception-rooms in a manner not altogether devoid33 of dignity. Mrs. Proudie had to retire and re-array herself.
As soon as the constellation34 had swept by, Ethelbert rose from his knees and, turning with mock anger to the fat rector, said: “After all it was your doing, sir — not mine. But perhaps you are waiting for preferment, and so I bore it.”
Whereupon there was a laugh against the fat rector, in which both the bishop and the chaplain joined, and thus things got themselves again into order.
“Oh! my lord, I am so sorry for this accident,” said the signora putting out her hand so as to force the bishop to take it. “My brother is so thoughtless. Pray sit down and let me have the pleasure of making your acquaintance. Though I am so poor a creature as to want a sofa, I am not so selfish as to require it all.” Madeline could always dispose herself so as to make room for a gentleman, though, as she declared, the crinoline of her lady friends was much too bulky to be so accommodated.
“It was solely35 for the pleasure of meeting you that I have had myself dragged here,” she continued. “Of course, with your occupation, one cannot even hope that you should have time to come to us, that is, in the way of calling. And at your English dinner-parties all is so dull and so stately. Do you know, my lord, that in coming to England my only consolation36 has been the thought that I should know you;” and she looked at him with the look of a she-devil.
The bishop, however, thought that she looked very like an angel and, accepting the proffered37 seat, sat down beside her. He uttered some platitude38 as to his deep obligation for the trouble she had taken and wondered more and more who she was.
“Of course you know my sad story?” she continued.
The bishop didn’t know a word of it. He knew, however, or thought he knew that she couldn’t walk into a room like other people, and so made the most of that. He put on a look of ineffable39 distress40 and said that he was aware how God had afflicted41 her.
The signora just touched the corner of her eyes with the most lovely of pocket-handkerchiefs. Yes, she said — she had been sorely tried — tried, she thought, beyond the common endurance of humanity; but while her child was left to her, everything was left. “Oh! my lord,” she exclaimed, you must see that infant — the last bud of a wondrous42 tree: you must let a mother hope that you will lay your holy hands on her innocent head and consecrate43 her for female virtues44. May I hope it?” said she, looking into the bishop’s eye and touching the bishop’s arm with her hand.
The bishop was but a man and said she might. After all, what was it but a request that he would confirm her daughter?— a request, indeed, very unnecessary to make, as he should do so as a matter of course if the young lady came forward in the usual way.
“The blood of Tiberius,” said the signora in all but a whisper; “the blood of Tiberius flows in her veins45. She is the last of the Neros!”
The bishop had heard of the last of the Visigoths, and had floating in his brain some indistinct idea of the last of the Mohicans, but to have the last of the Neros thus brought before him for a blessing46 was very staggering. Still he liked the lady: she had a proper way of thinking and talked with more propriety47 than her brother. But who were they? It was now quite clear that that blue madman with the silky beard was not a Prince Vicinironi. The lady was married and was of course one of the Vicinironi’s by right of the husband. So the bishop went on learning.
“When will you see her? said the signora with a start.
“See whom?” said the bishop.
“My child,” said the mother.
“What is the young lady’s age?” asked the bishop.
“She is just seven,” said the signora.
“Oh,” said the bishop, shaking his head; “she is much too young — very much too young.”
“But in sunny Italy, you know, we do not count by years,” and the signora gave the bishop one of her very sweetest smiles.
“But indeed, she is a great deal too young,” persisted the bishop; “we never confirm before —”
“But you might speak to her; you might let her hear from your consecrated48 lips that she is not a castaway because she is a Roman; that she may be a Nero and yet a Christian49; that she may owe her black locks and dark cheeks to the blood of the pagan Caesars and yet herself be a child of grace; you will tell her this, won’t you, my friend?”
The friend said he would and asked if the child could say her catechism.
“No,” said the signora, “I would not allow her to learn lessons such as those in a land ridden over by priests and polluted by the idolatry of Rome. It is here, here in Barchester, that she must first be taught to lisp those holy words. Oh, that you could be her instructor50!”
Now, Dr. Proudie certainly liked the lady, but, seeing that he was a bishop, it was not probable that he was going to instruct a little girl in the first rudiments51 of her catechism; so he said he’d send a teacher.
“But you’ll see her yourself, my lord?”
The bishop said he would, but where should he call.
“At Papa’s house,” said the Signora with an air of some little surprise at the question.
The bishop actually wanted the courage to ask her who was her papa, so he was forced to at last to leave her without fathoming52 the mystery. Mrs. Proudie, in her second best, had now returned to the rooms, and her husband thought it as well that he should not remain in too close conversation with the lady whom his wife appeared to hold in such slight esteem53. Presently he came across his youngest daughter.
“Netta,” said he, “do you know who is the father of that Signora Vicinironi?”
“It isn’t Vicinironi, Papa,” said Netta; “but Vesey Neroni and she’s Doctor Stanhope’s daughter. But I must go and do the civil to Griselda Grantly; I declare nobody has spoken a word to the poor girl this evening.”
Dr. Stanhope! Dr. Vesey Stanhope! Dr. Vesey Stanhope’s daughter, of whose marriage with a dissolute Italian scamp he now remembered to have heard something! And that impertinent blue cub54 who had examined him as to his episcopal bearings was old Stanhope’s son, and the lady who had entreated55 him to come and teach her child the catechism was old Stanhope’s daughter! The daughter of one of his own prebendaries! As these things flashed across his mind, he was nearly as angry as his wife had been. Nevertheless, he could not but own that the mother of the last of the Neros was an agreeable woman.
Dr. Proudie tripped out into the adjoining room, in which were congregated56 a crowd of Grantlyite clergymen, among whom the archdeacon was standing pre-eminent, while the old dean was sitting nearly buried in a huge arm chair by the fire-place. The bishop was very anxious to be gracious and, if possible, to diminish the bitterness which his chaplain had occasioned. Let Mr. Slope do the fortiter in re, he himself would pour in the suaviter in modo.
“Pray don’t stir, Mr. Dean, pray don’t stir,” he said as the old man essayed to get up; “I take it as a great kindness, your coming to such an omnium gatherum as this. But we have hardly got settled yet, and Mrs. Proudie has not been able to see her friends as she would wish to do. Well, Mr. Archdeacon, after all, we have not been so hard upon you at Oxford57.”
“No,” said the archdeacon, “you’ve only drawn58 our teeth and cut out our tongues; you’ve allowed us still to breathe and swallow.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the bishop; “it’s not quite so easy to cut out the tongue of an Oxford magnate — and as for teeth — ha, ha, ha! Why, in the way we’ve left the matter, it’s very odd if the heads of colleges don’t have their own way quite as fully32 as when the hebdomadal board was in all its glory; what do you say, Mr. Dean?”
“An old man, my lord, never likes changes,” said the dean.
“You must have been sad bunglers if it is so,” said the archdeacon; “and indeed, to tell the truth, I think you have bungled59 it. At any rate, you must own this; you have not done the half what you boasted you would do.”
“Now, as regards your system of professors —” began the chancellor61 slowly. He was never destined62 to get beyond such beginning.
“Talking of professors,” said a soft clear voice close behind the chancellor’s elbow; “how much you Englishmen might learn from Germany; only you are all too proud.”
The bishop, looking round, perceived that that abominable63 young Stanhope had pursued him. The dean stared at him as though he were some unearthly apparition64; so also did two or three prebendaries and minor65 canons. The archdeacon laughed.
“The German professors are men of learning,” said Mr. Harding, “but —
“German professors!” groaned66 out the chancellor as though his nervous system had received a shock which nothing but a week of Oxford air could cure.
“Yes,” continued Ethelbert, not at all understanding why a German professor should be contemptible67 in the eyes of an Oxford don. “Not but what the name is best earned at Oxford. In Germany the professors do teach; at Oxford, I believe, they only profess60 to do so, and sometimes not even that. You’ll have those universities of yours about your ears soon, if you don’t consent to take a lesson from Germany.”
There was no answering this. Dignified clergymen of sixty years of age could not condescend12 to discuss such a matter with a young man with such clothes and such a beard.
“Have you got good water out at Plumstead, Mr. Archdeacon?” said the bishop by way of changing the conversation.
“Pretty good,” said Dr. Grantly.
“But by no means so good as his wine, my lord,” said a witty68 minor canon.
“Nor so generally used,” said another; “that is, for inward application.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the bishop, “a good cellar of wine is a very comfortable thing in a house”
“Your German professors, Sir, prefer beer, I believe,” said the sarcastic69 little meagre prebendary.
“They don’t think much of either,” said Ethelbert, “and that perhaps accounts for their superiority. Now the Jewish professor —”
The insult was becoming too deep for the spirit of Oxford to endure, so the archdeacon walked off one way and the chancellor another, followed by their disciples70, and the bishop and the young reformer were left together on the hearth-rug.
“I was a Jew once myself,” began Bertie.
The bishop was determined71 not to stand another examination, or be led on any terms into Palestine, so he again remembered that he had to do something very particular and left young Stanhope with the dean. The dean did not get the worst of it for Ethelbert gave him a true account of his remarkable72 doings in the Holy Land.
“Oh, Mr. Harding,” said the bishop, overtaking the ci-devant warden73; “I wanted to say one word about the hospital. You know, of course, that it is to be filled up.”
Mr. Harding’s heart beat a little, and he said that he had heard so.
“Of course,” continued the bishop; “there can be only one man whom I could wish to see in that situation. I don’t know what your own views may be, Mr. Harding —”
“They are very simply told, my lord,” said the other; “to take the place if it be offered me, and to put up with the want of it should another man get it.”
The bishop professed74 himself delighted to hear it; Mr. Harding might be quite sure that no other man would get it. There were some few circumstances which would in a slight degree change the nature of the duties. Mr. Harding was probably aware of this, and would, perhaps, not object to discuss the matter with Mr. Slope. It was a subject to which Mr. Slope had given a good deal of attention.
Mr. Harding felt, he knew not why, oppressed and annoyed. What could Mr. Slope do to him? He knew that there were to be changes. The nature of them must he communicated to the warden through somebody, and through whom so naturally as the bishop’s chaplain? ’Twas thus he tried to argue himself back to an easy mind, but in vain.
Mr. Slope in the meantime had taken the seat which the bishop had vacated on the signora’s sofa and remained with that lady till it was time to marshal the folk to supper. Not with contented75 eyes had Mrs. Proudie seen this. Had not this woman laughed at her distress, and had not Mr. Slope heard it? Was she not an intriguing76 Italian woman, half wife and half not, full of affectation, airs, and impudence77? Was she not horribly bedizened with velvet78 and pearls, with velvet and pearls, too, which had not been torn off her back? Above all, did she not pretend to be more beautiful than her neighbours? To say that Mrs. Proudie was jealous would give a wrong idea of her feelings. She had not the slightest desire that Mr. Slope should be in love with herself. But she desired the incense79 of Mr. Slope’s spiritual and temporal services and did not choose that they should be turned out of their course to such an object as Signora Neroni. She considered also that Mr. Slope ought in duty to hate the signora, and it appeared from his manner that he was very far from hating her.
“Come, Mr. Slope,” she said, sweeping80 by and looking all that she felt, “can’t you make yourself useful? Do pray take Mrs. Grantly down to supper.”
Mrs. Grantly heard and escaped. The words were hardly out of Mrs. Proudie’s mouth before the intended victim had stuck her hand through the arm of one of her husband’s curates and saved herself. What would the archdeacon have said had he seen her walking downstairs with Mr. Slope?
Mr. Slope heard also but was by no means so obedient as was expected. Indeed, the period of Mr. Slope’s obedience81 to Mrs. Proudie was drawing to a close. He did not wish yet to break with her, nor to break with her at all, if it could be avoided. But he intended to be master in that palace, and as she had made the same resolution it was not improbable that they might come to blows.
Before leaving the signora he arranged a little table before her and begged to know what he should bring her. She was quite indifferent, she said — nothing — anything. It was now she felt the misery82 of her position, now that she must be left alone. Well, a little chicken, some ham, and a glass of champagne83.
Mr. Slope had to explain, not without blushing for his patron, that there was no champagne.
Sherry would do just as well. And then Mr. Slope descended84 with the learned Miss Trefoil on his arm. Could she tell him, he asked, whether the ferns of Barsetshire were equal to those of Cumberland? His strongest worldly passion was for ferns — and before she could answer him he left her wedged between the door and the sideboard. It was fifty minutes before she escaped, and even then unfed.
“You are not leaving us, Mr. Slope,” said the watchful85 lady of the house, seeing her slave escaping towards the door, with stores of provisions held high above the heads of the guests.
Mr. Slope explained that the Signora Neroni was in want of her supper.
“Pray, Mr. Slope, let her brother take it to her,” said Mrs. Proudie, quite out loud. “It is out of the question that you should he so employed. Pray, Mr. Slope, oblige me; I am sure Mr. Stanhope will wait upon his sister.”
Ethelbert was most agreeably occupied in the furthest corner of the room, making himself both useful and agreeable to Mrs. Proudie’s youngest daughter.
“I couldn’t get out, madam, if Madeline were starving for her supper,” said he; “I’m physically86 fixed87, unless I could fly.”
The lady’s anger was increased by seeing that her daughter also had gone over to the enemy, and when she saw that in spite of her remonstrances88, in the teeth of her positive orders, Mr. Slope went off to the drawing-room, the cup of her indignation ran over, and she could not restrain herself. “Such manners I never saw,” she said, muttering. “I cannot and will not permit it;” and then, after fussing and fuming89 for a few minutes, she pushed her way through the crowd and followed Mr. Slope.
When she reached the room above, she found it absolutely deserted90, except by the guilty pair. The signora was sitting very comfortably up to her supper, and Mr. Slope was leaning over her and administering to her wants. They had been discussing the merits of Sabbath-day schools, and the lady had suggested that as she could not possibly go to the children, she might be indulged in the wish of her heart by having the children brought to her.
“And when shall it be, Mr. Slope?” said she.
Mr. Slope was saved the necessity of committing himself to a promise by the entry of Mrs. Proudie. She swept close up to the sofa so as to confront the guilty pair, stared full at them for a moment, and then said, as she passed on to the next room, “Mr. Slope, his lordship is especially desirous of your attendance below; you will greatly oblige me if you will join him.” And so she stalked on.
Mr. Slope muttered something in reply and prepared to go downstairs. As for the bishop’s wanting him, he knew his lady patroness well enough to take that assertion at what it was worth; but he did not wish to make himself the hero of a scene, or to become conspicuous91 for more gallantry than the occasion required.
“Is she always like this?” said the signora.
“Yes — always — madam,” said Mrs. Proudie, returning; “always the same — always equally adverse92 to impropriety of conduct of every description;” and she stalked back through the room again, following Mr. Slope out of the door.
The signora couldn’t follow her, or she certainly would have done so. But she laughed loud and sent the sound of it ringing through the lobby and down the stairs after Mrs. Proudie’s feet. Had she been as active as Grimaldi, she could probably have taken no better revenge.
“Mr. Slope,” said Mrs. Proudie, catching93 the delinquent94 at the door, “I am surprised you should leave my company to attend on such a painted Jezebel as that.”
“But she’s lame95, Mrs. Proudie, and cannot move. Somebody must have waited upon her.”
“Lame,” said Mrs. Proudie; “I’d lame her if she belonged to me. What business had she here at all?— such impertinence — such affectation.”
In the hall and adjacent rooms all manner of cloaking and shawling was going on, and the Barchester folk were getting themselves gone. Mrs. Proudie did her best to smirk96 at each and every one as they made their adieux, but she was hardly successful. Her temper had been tried fearfully. By slow degrees the guests went.
“Send back the carriage quick,” said Ethelbert as Dr. and Mrs. Stanhope took their departure.
The younger Stanhopes were left to the very last, and an uncomfortable party they made with the bishop’s family. They all went into the dining-room, and then the bishop observing that “the lady” was alone in the drawing-room, they followed him up. Mrs. Proudie kept Mr. Slope and her daughters in close conversation, resolving that he should not be indulged, nor they polluted. The bishop, in mortal dread97 of Bertie and the Jews, tried to converse98 with Charlotte Stanhope about the climate of Italy. Bertie and the signora had no resource but in each other.
“Did you get your supper at last, Madeline?” said the impudent99 or else mischievous100 young man.
“Oh, yes,” said Madeline; “Mr. Slope was so very kind as to bring it me. I fear, however, he put himself to more inconvenience than I wished.”
Mrs. Proudie looked at her but said nothing. The meaning of her look might have been thus translated; “If ever you find yourself within these walls again, I’ll give you leave to be as impudent and affected101 and as mischievous as you please.”
At last the carriage returned with the three Italian servants, and La Signora Madeline Vesey Neroni was carried out as she had been carried in.
The lady of the palace retired102 to her chamber103 by no means contented with the result of her first grand party at Barchester.
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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grimaces
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| n.（表蔑视、厌恶等）面部扭曲，鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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acolyte
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treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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intentionally
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standing
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condescending
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condescend
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sociable
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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applied
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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18
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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21
liberate
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| v.解放，使获得自由，释出，放出；vt.解放，使获自由 | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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23
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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opportunely
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| adv.恰好地，适时地 | |
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25
looms
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| n.织布机( loom的名词复数 )v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的第三人称单数 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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26
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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29
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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30
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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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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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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34
constellation
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| n.星座n.灿烂的一群 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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platitude
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| n.老生常谈，陈词滥调 | |
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ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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consecrate
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| v.使圣化，奉…为神圣；尊崇；奉献 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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45
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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48
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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51
rudiments
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| n.基础知识，入门 | |
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52
fathoming
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| 测量 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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congregated
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| （使）集合，聚集( congregate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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bungled
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| v.搞糟，完不成( bungle的过去式和过去分词 )；笨手笨脚地做；失败；完不成 | |
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profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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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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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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68
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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71
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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72
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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73
warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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75
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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intriguing
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| adj.有趣的；迷人的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的现在分词)；激起…的好奇心 | |
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77
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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78
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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79
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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81
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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82
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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83
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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84
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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85
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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86
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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87
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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88
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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89
fuming
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| 愤怒( fume的现在分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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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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92
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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93
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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94
delinquent
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| adj.犯法的，有过失的；n.违法者 | |
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95
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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96
smirk
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| n.得意地笑；v.傻笑；假笑着说 | |
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97
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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98
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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99
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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100
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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101
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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102
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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103
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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