In the prosperous year of 1856, incomes of between a hundred and a hundred and fifty pounds were chargeable with a tax of elevenpence halfpenny in the pound: persons who enjoyed a revenue of a hundred and fifty or more had the honour of paying one and fourpence. Abatements there were none, and families supporting life on two pounds a week might in some cases, perchance, be reconciled to the mulct by considering how equitably1 its incidence was graduated.
Some, on the other hand, were less philosophical2; for instance, the household consisting of Nicholas Peak, his wife, their three-year-old daughter, their newly-born son, and a blind sister of Nicholas, dependent upon him for sustenance3. Mr. Peak, aged4 thirty and now four years wedded5, had a small cottage on the outskirts6 of Greenwich. He was employed as dispenser, at a salary of thirty-five shillings a week, by a medical man with a large practice. His income, therefore, fell considerably7 within the hundred pound limit; and, all things considered, it was not unreasonable8 that he should be allowed to expend9 the whole of this sum on domestic necessities. But it came to pass that Nicholas, in his greed of wealth, obtained supplementary10 employment, which benefited him to the extent of a yearly ten pounds. Called upon to render his statement to the surveyor of income-tax, he declared himself in possession of a hundred and one pounds per annum; consequently, he stood indebted to the Exchequer11 in the sum of four pounds, sixteen shillings, and ninepence. His countenance12 darkened, as also did that of Mrs. Peak.
‘This is wrong and cruel—dreadfully cruel!’ cried the latter, with tears in her eyes.
‘It is; but that’s no new thing,’ was the bitter reply.
‘I think it’s wrong of you, Nicholas. What need is there to say anything about that ten pounds? It’s taking the food out of our mouths.’
Knowing only the letter of the law, Mr. Peak answered sternly:
‘My income is a hundred and one pounds. I can’t sign my name to a lie.’
Picture the man. Tall, gaunt, with sharp intellectual features, and eyes of singular beauty, the face of an enthusiast—under given circumstances, of a hero. Poorly clad, of course, but with rigorous self-respect; his boots polished, propria manu, to the point of perfection; his linen14 washed and ironed by the indefatigable15 wife. Of simplest tastes, of most frugal16 habits, a few books the only luxury which he deemed indispensable; yet a most difficult man to live with, for to him applied17 precisely18 the description which Robert Burns gave of his own father; he was ‘of stubborn, ungainly integrity and headlong irascibility’.
Ungainly, for his strong impulses towards culture were powerless to obliterate19 the traces of his rude origin. Born in a London alley20, the son of a labourer burdened with a large family, he had made his way by sheer force of character to a position which would have seemed proud success but for the difficulty with which he kept himself alive. His parents were dead. Of his brothers, two had disappeared in the abyss, and one, Andrew, earned a hard livelihood21 as a journeyman baker22; the elder of his sisters had married poorly, and the younger was his blind pensioner23. Nicholas had found a wife of better birth than his own, a young woman with country kindred in decent circumstances, though she herself served as nursemaid in the house of the medical man who employed her future husband. He had taught himself the English language, so far as grammar went, but could not cast off the London accent; Mrs. Peak was fortunate enough to speak with nothing worse than the note of the Midlands.
His bent24 led him to the study of history, politics, economics, and in that time of military outbreak he was frenzied25 by the conflict of his ideals with the state of things about him. A book frequently in his hands was Godwin’s Political Justice, and when a son had been born to him he decided26 to name the child after that favourite author. In this way, at all events, he could find some expression for his hot defiance27 of iniquity28.
He paid his income-tax, and felt a savage29 joy in the privation thus imposed upon his family. Mrs. Peak could not forgive her husband, and in this case, though she had but dim appreciation30 of the point of honour involved, her censures31 doubtless fell on Nicholas’s vulnerable spot; it was the perversity32 of arrogance33, at least as much as honesty, that impelled34 him to incur35 taxation36. His wife’s perseverance37 in complaint drove him to stern impatience38, and for a long time the peace of the household suffered.
When the boy Godwin was five years old, the death of his blind aunt came as a relief to means which were in every sense overtaxed. Twelve months later, a piece of unprecedented39 good fortune seemed to place the Peaks beyond fear of want, and at the same time to supply Nicholas with a fulfilment of hopeless desires. By the death of Mrs Peak’s brother, they came into possession of a freehold house and about nine hundred pounds. The property was situated40 some twelve miles from the Midland town of Twybridge, and thither41 they at once removed. At Twybridge lived Mrs. Peak’s elder sister, Miss Cadman; but between this lady and her nearest kinsfolk there had been but slight correspondence—the deceased Cadman left her only a couple of hundred pounds. With capital at command, Nicholas Peak took a lease of certain fields near his house, and turned farmer. The study of chemistry had given a special bent to his economic speculations43; he fancied himself endowed with exceptional aptitude44 for agriculture, and the scent45 of the furrow46 brought all his energies into feverish47 activity—activity which soon impoverished48 him: that was in the order of things. ‘Ungainly integrity’ and ‘headlong irascibility’ wrought49 the same results for the exdispenser as for the Ayrshire husbandman. His farming came to a chaotic50 end; and when the struggling man died, worn out at forty-three, his wife and children (there was now a younger boy, Oliver, named after the Protector) had no very bright prospects51.
Things went better with them than might have been anticipated. To Mrs. Peak her husband’s death was not an occasion of unmingled mourning. For the last few years she had suffered severely53 from domestic discord54, and when left at peace by bereavement55 she turned with a sense of liberation to the task of caring for her children’s future. Godwin was just thirteen, Oliver was eleven; both had been well schooled, and with the help of friends they might soon be put in the way of self-support. The daughter, Charlotte, sixteen years of age, had accomplishments56 which would perhaps be profitable. The widow decided to make a home in Twybridge, where Miss Cadman kept a millinery shop. By means of this connection, Charlotte presently found employment for her skill in fine needlework. Mrs. Peak was incapable57 of earning money, but the experiences of her early married life enabled her to make more than the most of the pittance58 at her disposal.
Miss Cadman was a woman of active mind, something of a busy-body—dogmatic, punctilious59 in her claims to respect, proud of the acknowledgment by her acquaintances that she was not as other tradespeople; her chief weakness was a fanatical ecclesiasticism, the common blight60 of English womanhood. Circumstances had allowed her a better education than generally falls to women of that standing61, and in spite of her shop she succeeded in retaining the friendship of certain ladies long ago her schoolfellows. Among these were the Misses Lumb—middle-aged sisters, who lived at Twybridge on a small independence, their time chiefly devoted63 to the support of the Anglican Church. An eldest64 Miss Lumb had been fortunate enough to marry that growing potentate65 of the Midlands, Mr. Job Whitelaw. Now Lady Whitelaw, she dwelt at Kingsmill, but her sisters frequently enjoyed the honour of entertaining her, and even Miss Cadman the milliner occasionally held converse66 with the baronet’s wife. In this way it came to pass that the Widow Peak and her children were brought under the notice of persons who sooner or later might be of assistance to them.
Abounding67 in emphatic68 advice, Miss Cadman easily persuaded her sister that Godwin must go to school for at least two years longer. The boys had been at a boarding-school twenty miles away from their country home; it would be better for them now to be put under the care of some Twybridge teacher—such an one as Miss Cadman’s acquaintances could recommend. For her own credit, the milliner was anxious that these nephews of hers should not be running about the town as errand-boys or the like, and with prudence69 there was no necessity for such degradation70. An uncommon71 lad like Godwin (she imagined him named after the historic earl) must not be robbed of his fair chance in life; she would gladly spare a little money for his benefit; he was a boy to repay such expenditure72.
Indeed it seemed probable. Godwin devoured73 books, and had a remarkable74 faculty75 for gaining solid information on any subject that took his fancy. What might be the special bent of his mind one could not yet discover. He read poetry with precocious76 gusto, but at the same time his aptitude for scientific pursuits was strongly marked. In botany, chemistry, physics, he made progress which the people about him, including his schoolmaster, were incapable of appreciating; and already the collection of books left by his father, most of them out of date, failed to satisfy his curiosity. It might be feared that tastes so discursive77 would be disadvantageous to a lad who must needs pursue some definite bread-study, and the strain of self-consciousness which grew strong in him was again a matter for concern. He cared nothing for boyish games and companionship; in the society of strangers especially of females—he behaved with an excessive shyness which was easily mistaken for a surly temper. Reproof78, correction, he could not endure, and it was fortunate that the decorum of his habits made remonstrance79 seldom needful.
Ludicrous as the project would have appeared to any unbiassed observer of character, Miss Cadman conceived a hope that Godwin might become a clergyman. From her point of view it was natural to assume that uncommon talents must be devoted to the service of the Church, and she would have gladly done her utmost for the practical furthering of such an end. Mrs. Peak, though well aware that her son had imbibed81 the paternal82 prejudices, was disposed to entertain the same hope, despite solid obstacles. For several years she had nourished a secret antagonism83 to her husband’s spirit of political, social, and religious rebellion, and in her widowhood she speedily became a pattern of the conservative female. It would have gratified her to discern any possibility of Godwin’s assuming the priestly garb84. And not alone on the ground of conscience. Long ago she had repented85 the marriage which connected her with such a family as that of the Peaks, and she ardently86 desired that the children, now exclusively her own, might enter life on a plane superior to their father’s.
‘Godwin, how would you like to go to College and be a clergyman?’ she asked one Sunday afternoon, when an hour or two of congenial reading seemed to have put the boy into a gentle humour.
‘To go to College’ was all very well (diplomacy had prompted this preface), but the words that followed fell so alarmingly on Godwin’s ear that he looked up with a resentful expression, unable to reply otherwise.
‘You never thought of it, I suppose?’ his mother faltered88; for she often stood in awe89 of her son, who, though yet but fourteen, had much of his father’s commanding severity.
‘I don’t want to be a parson,’ came at length, bluntly.
‘Don’t use that word, Godwin.’
‘Why not? It’s quite a proper word. It comes from the Latin persona.’
The mother had enough discretion90 to keep silence, and Godwin, after in vain trying to settle to his book again, left the room with disturbed countenance.
He had now been attending the day-school for about a year, and was distinctly ahead of his coevals. A Christmas examination was on the point of being held, and it happened that a singular test of the lad’s moral character coincided with the proof of his intellectual progress. In a neighbouring house lived an old man named Rawmarsh, kindly91 but rather eccentric; he had once done a good business as a printer, and now supported himself by such chance typographic work of a small kind as friends might put in his way. He conceived an affection for Godwin; often had the boy to talk with him of an evening. On one such occasion, Mr. Rawmarsh opened a desk, took forth92 a packet of newly printed leaves, and with a mysterious air silently spread them before the boy’s eyes. In an instant Godwin became aware that he was looking at the examination papers which a day or two hence would be set before him at school; he saw and recognised a passage from the book of Virgil which his class had been reading.
‘That is sub rosa, you know,’ whispered the old printer, with half averted93 face.
Godwin shrank away, and could not resume the conversation thus interrupted. On the following day he went about with a feeling of guilt94. He avoided the sight of Mr. Rawmarsh, for whom he had suddenly lost all respect, and suffered torments95 in the thought that he enjoyed an unfair advantage over his class-mates. The Latin passage happened to be one which he knew thoroughly96 well; there was no need, even had he desired, to ‘look it up’; but in sitting down to the examination, he experienced a sense of shame and self-rebuke. So strong were the effects of this, that he voluntarily omitted the answer to a certain important question which he could have ‘done’ better than any of the other boys, thus endeavouring to adjust in his conscience the terms of competition, though in fact no such sacrifice was called for. He came out at the head of the class, but the triumph had no savour for him, and for many a year he was subject to a flush of mortification97 whenever this incident came back to his mind.
Mr. Rawmarsh was not the only intelligent man who took an interest in Godwin. In a house which the boy sometimes visited with a school-fellow, lodged98 a notable couple named Gunnery the husband about seventy, the wife five years older; they lived on a pension from a railway company. Mr. Gunnery was a dabbler99 in many sciences, but had a special enthusiasm for geology. Two cabinets of stones and fossils gave evidence of his zealous100 travels about the British isles102; he had even written a little hand-book of petrology which was for sale at certain booksellers’ in Twybridge, and probably nowhere else. To him, about this time, Godwin began to resort, always sure of a welcome; and in the little uncarpeted room where Mr. Gunnery pursued his investigations103 many a fateful lesson was given and received. The teacher understood the intelligence he had to deal with, and was delighted to convey, by the mode of suggested inference, sundry104 results of knowledge which it perhaps would not have been prudent105 to declare in plain, popular words.
Their intercourse106 was not invariably placid107. The geologist108 had an irritable109 temper, and in certain states of the atmosphere his rheumatic twinges made it advisable to shun110 argument with him. Godwin, moreover, was distinguished111 by an instability of mood peculiarly trying to an old man’s testy112 humour. Of a sudden, to Mr Gunnery’s surprise and annoyance113, he would lose all interest in this or that science. Thus, one day the lad declared himself unable to name two stones set before him, felspar and quartz114, and when his instructor115 broke into angry impatience he turned sullenly116 away, exclaiming that he was tired of geology.
‘Tired of geology?’ cried Mr. Gunnery, with flaming eyes. ‘Then I am tired of you, Master Peak! Be off, and don’t come again till I send for you!’
Godwin retired117 without a word. On the second day he was summoned back again, but his resentment118 of the dismissal rankled119 in him for a long time; injury to his pride was the wrong he found it hardest to forgive.
His schoolmaster, aware of the unusual pursuits which he added to the routine of lessons, gave him as a prize the English translation of a book by Figuier—The World before the Deluge120. Strongly interested by the illustrations of the volume (fanciful scenes from the successive geologic121 periods), Godwin at once carried it to his scientific friend. ‘Deluge?’ growled122 Mr. Gunnery. ‘What deluge? Which deluge?’ But he restrained himself, handed the book coldly back, and began to talk of something else. All this was highly significant to Godwin, who of course began the perusal123 of his prize in a suspicious mood. Nor was he long before he sympathised with Mr Gunnery’s distaste. Though too young to grasp the arguments at issue, his prejudices were strongly excited by the conventional Theism which pervades124 Figuier’s work. Already it was the habit of his mind to associate popular dogma with intellectual shallowness; herein, as at every other point which fell within his scope, he had begun to scorn average people, and to pride himself intensely on views which he found generally condemned125. Day by day he grew into a clearer understanding of the memories bequeathed to him by his father; he began to interpret remarks, details of behaviour, instances of wrath126, which, though they had stamped themselves on his recollection, conveyed at the time no precise significance. The issue was that he hardened himself against the influence of his mother and his aunt, regarding them as in league against the free progress of his education.
As women, again, he despised these relatives. It is almost impossible for a bright-witted lad born in the lower middle class to escape this stage of development. The brutally127 healthy boy contemns128 the female sex because he sees it incapable of his own athletic129 sports, but Godwin was one of those upon whose awaking intellect is forced a perception of the brain-defect so general in women when they are taught few of life’s graces and none of its serious concerns,—their paltry130 prepossessions, their vulgar sequaciousness, their invincible131 ignorance, their absorption in a petty self. And especially is this phase of thought to be expected in a boy whose heart blindly nourishes the seeds of poetical132 passion. It was Godwin’s sincere belief that he held girls, as girls, in abhorrence133. This meant that he dreaded134 their personal criticism, and that the spectacle of female beauty sometimes overcame him with a despair which he could not analyse. Matrons and elderly unmarried women were truly the objects of his disdain135; in them he saw nothing but their shortcomings. Towards his mother he was conscious of no tenderness; of as little towards his sister, who often censured136 him with trenchant137 tongue; as for his aunt, whose admiration138 of him was modified by reticences, he could never be at ease in her company, so strong a dislike had he for her look, her voice, her ways of speech.
He would soon be fifteen years old. Mrs. Peak was growing anxious, for she could no longer consent to draw upon her sister for a portion of the school fees, and no pertinent139 suggestion for the lad’s future was made by any of the people who admired his cleverness. Miss Cadman still clung in a fitful way to the idea of making her nephew a cleric; she had often talked it over with the Misses Lumb, who of course held that ‘any sacrifice’ was justifiable140 with such a motive141, and who suggested a hope that, by the instrumentality of Lady Whitelaw, a curacy might easily be obtained as soon as Godwin was old enough. But several years must pass before that Levitical stage could be reached; and then, after all, perhaps the younger boy, Oliver, placid of temper and notably142 pliant143 in mind, was better suited for the dignity of Orders. It was lamentable144 that Godwin should have become so intimate with that earth-burrowing Mr. Gunnery, who certainly never attended either church or chapel145, and who seemed to have imbued146 his pupil with immoral147 theories concerning the date of creation. Godwin held more decidedly aloof148 from his aunt, and had been heard by Charlotte to speak very disrespectfully of the Misses Lumb. In short, there was no choice but to discover an opening for him in some secular149 pursuit. Could he, perhaps, become an assistant teacher? Or must he ‘go into an office’?
No common lad. A youth whose brain glowed like a furnace, whose heart throbbed150 with tumult151 of high ambitions, of inchoate152 desires; endowed with knowledge altogether exceptional for his years; a nature essentially153 militant154, displaying itself in innumerable forms of callow intolerance—apt, assuredly, for some vigorous part in life, but as likely as not to rush headlong on traverse roads if no judicious155 mind assumed control of him. What is to be done with the boy?
All very well, if the question signified, in what way to provide for the healthy development of his manhood. Of course it meant nothing of the sort, but merely: What work can be found for him whereby he may earn his daily bread? We—his kinsfolk even, not to think of the world at large—can have no concern with his growth as an intellectual being; we are hard pressed to supply our own mouths with food; and now that we have done our recognised duty by him, it is high time that he learnt to fight for his own share of provender157. Happily, he is of the robust158 sex; he can hit out right and left, and make standing-room. We have armed him with serviceable weapons, and now he must use them against the enemy—that is to say, against all mankind, who will quickly enough deprive him of sustenance if he fail in the conflict. We neither know, nor in great measure care, for what employment he is naturally marked. Obviously he cannot heave coals or sell dogs’ meat, but with negative certainty not much else can be resolved, seeing how desperate is the competition for minimum salaries. He has been born, and he must eat. By what licensed159 channel may he procure160 the necessary viands161?
Paternal relatives Godwin had as good as none. In quitting London, Nicholas Peak had ceased to hold communication with any of his own stock save the younger brother Andrew. With him he occasionally exchanged a letter, but Andrew’s share in the correspondence was limited to ungrammatical and often unintelligible162 hints of numerous projects for money-making. Just after the removal of the bereaved163 family to Twybridge, they were surprised by a visit from Andrew, in answer to one of whose letters Mrs. Peak had sent news of her husband’s death. Though her dislike of the man amounted to loathing164, the widow could not refuse him hospitality; she did her best, however, to prevent his coming in contact with anyone she knew. Andrew declared that he was at length prospering165; he had started a coffee-shop at Dalston, in north-east London, and positively166 urged a proposal (well-meant, beyond doubt) that Godwin should be allowed to come to him and learn the business. Since then the Londoner had once again visited Twybridge, towards the end of Godwin’s last school-year. This time he spoke167 of himself less hopefully, and declared a wish to transfer his business to some provincial168 town, where he thought his metropolitan169 experience might be of great value, in the absence of serious competition. It was not difficult to discover a family likeness170 between Andrew’s instability and the idealism which had proved the ruin of Nicholas.
On this second occasion Godwin tried to escape a meeting with his uncle. Unable to do so, he sat mute, replying to questions monosyllabically. Mrs. Peak’s shame and annoyance, in face of this London-branded vulgarian, were but feeble emotions compared with those of her son. Godwin hated the man, and was in dread13 lest any school-fellow should come to know of such a connection. Yet delicacy171 prevented his uttering a word on the subject to his mother. Mrs Peak’s silence after Andrew’s departure made it uncertain how she regarded the obligation of kindred, and in any such matter as this the boy was far too sensitive to risk giving pain. But to his brother Oliver he spoke.
‘What is the brute172 to us? When I’m a man, let him venture to come near me, and see what sort of a reception he’ll get! I hate low, uneducated people! I hate them worse than the filthiest173 vermin!—don’t you?’
Oliver, aged but thirteen, assented174, as he habitually176 did to any question which seemed to await an affirmative.
‘They ought to be swept off the face of the earth!’ pursued Godwin, sitting up in bed—for the dialogue took place about eleven o’clock at night. ‘All the grown-up creatures, who can’t speak proper English and don’t know how to behave themselves, I’d transport them to the Falkland Islands,’—this geographic177 precision was a note of the boy’s mind,—‘and let them die off as soon as possible. The children should be sent to school and purified, if possible; if not, they too should be got rid of.’
‘You’re an aristocrat178, Godwin,’ remarked Oliver, simply; for the elder brother had of late been telling him fearful stories from the French Revolution, with something of an anti-popular bias80.
‘I hope I am. I mean to be, that’s certain. There’s nothing I hate like vulgarity. That’s why I can’t stand Roper. When he beat me in mathematics last midsummer, I felt so ashamed I could hardly bear myself. I’m working like a nigger at algebra179 and Euclid this half, just because I think it would almost kill me to be beaten again by a low cad.’
This was perhaps the first time that Godwin found expression for the prejudice which affected180 all his thoughts and feelings. It relieved him to have spoken thus; henceforth he had become clear as to his point of view. By dubbing181 him aristocrat, Oliver had flattered him in the subtlest way. If indeed the title were justly his, as he instantly felt it was, the inference was plain that he must be an aristocrat of nature’s own making—one of the few highly favoured beings who, in despite of circumstance, are pinnacled182 above mankind. In his ignorance of life, the boy visioned a triumphant183 career; an aristocrat de jure might possibly become one even in the common sense did he but pursue that end with sufficient zeal101. And in his power of persistent184 endeavour he had no lack of faith.
The next day he walked with exalted185 head. Encountering the objectionable Roper, he smiled upon him contemptuously tolerant.
There being no hope of effective assistance from relatives, Mrs. Peak turned for counsel to a man of business, with whom her husband had made acquaintance in his farming days, and who held a position of influence at Twybridge. This was Mr. Moxey, manufacturing chemist, famous in the Midlands for his ‘sheep and cattle dressings’, and sundry other products of agricultural enterprise. His ill-scented, but lucrative186, works were situated a mile out of the town; and within sight of the reeking187 chimneys stood a large, plain house, uncomfortably like an ‘institution’ of some kind, in which he dwelt with his five daughters. Thither, one evening, Mrs. Peak betook herself, having learnt that Mr. Moxey dined at five o’clock, and that he was generally to be found digging in his garden until sunset. Her reception was civil. The manufacturer—sparing of words, but with no unkindly face—requested that Godwin should be sent to see him, and promised to do his best to be of use. A talk with the boy strengthened his interest. He was surprised at Godwin’s knowledge of chemistry, pleased with his general intelligence, and in the end offered to make a place for him at the works, where, though for a year or two his earnings188 must be small, he would gain experience likely to be of substantial use to him. Godwin did not find the proposal distasteful; it brought a change into his life, and the excitement of novelty; it flattered him with the show of release from pupilage. To Mr. Moxey’s he went.
The hours were not long, and it was understood that his theoretical studies should continue in the evening. Godwin’s home was a very small house in a monotonous189 little street; a garret served as bedroom for the two boys, also as the elder one’s laboratory. Servant Mrs. Peak had none. She managed everything herself, as in the old Greenwich days, leaving Charlotte free to work at her embroidery190. Godwin took turns with Oliver at blacking the shoes.
As a matter of course the boys accompanied their mother each Sunday morning to the parish church, and this ceremony was becoming an insufferable tax on Godwin’s patience. It was not only that he hated the name of religion, and scorned with much fierceness all who came in sympathetic contact therewith; the loss of time seemed to him an oppressive injury, especially now that he began to suffer from restricted leisure. He would not refuse to obey his mother’s wish, but the sullenness191 of his Sabbatic demeanour made the whole family uncomfortable. As often as possible he feigned192 illness. He tried the effect of dolorous193 sighs and groans194; but Mrs. Peak could not dream of conceding a point which would have seemed to her the condonation195 of deadly sin. ‘When I am a man!’ muttered Godwin. ‘Ah! when I am a man!’
A year had gone by, and the routine to which he was bound began to have a servile flavour. His mind chafed196 at subjugation197 to commercial interests. Sick of ‘sheep and cattle dressings’, he grew tired of chemistry altogether, and presently of physical science in general. His evenings were given to poetry and history; he took up the classical schoolbooks again, and found a charm in Latin syntax hitherto unperceived. It was plain to him now how he had been wronged by the necessity of leaving school when his education had but just begun.
Discontent becoming ripe for utterance198, he unbosomed himself to Mr Gunnery. It happened that the old man had just returned from a visit to Kingsmill, where he had spent a week in the museum, then newly enriched with geologic specimens199. After listening in silence to the boy’s complaints, and pondering for a long time, he began to talk of Whitelaw College.
‘Does it cost much to study there?’ Godwin asked, gloomily.
‘No great sum, I think. There are scholarships to be had.’
Mr. Gunnery threw out the suggestion carelessly. Knowing the hazards of life, he could not quite justify200 himself in encouraging Godwin’s restiveness201.
‘Scholarships? For free study?’
‘Yes; but that wouldn’t mean free living, you know. Students don’t live at the College.’
‘How do you go in for a scholarship?’
The old man replied, meditatively202, ‘If you were to pass the Cambridge Local Examination, and to get the first place in the Kingsmill district, you would have three years of free study at Whitelaw.’
‘Three years?’ shouted Godwin, springing up from his chair.
‘But how could you live, my boy?’
Godwin sat down again, and let his head fall forward.
How to keep oneself alive during a few years of intellectual growth?—a question often asked by men of mature age, but seldom by a lad of sixteen. No matter. He resolved that he would study for this Cambridge Local Examination, and have a try for the scholarship. His attainments203 were already up to the standard required for average success in such competitions. On obtaining a set of ‘papers’, he found that they looked easy enough. Could he not come out first in the Kingsmill district?
He worked vigorously at special subjects; aid was needless, but he wished for more leisure. Not a word to any member of his household. When his mother discovered that he was reading in the bedroom till long past midnight, she made serious objection on the score of health and on that of gas bills. Godwin quietly asserted that work he must, and that if necessary he would buy candles out of his pocket-money. He had unexpectedly become more grave, more restrained; he even ceased to grumble204 about going to church, having found that service time could be utilised for committing to memory lists of dates and the like, jotted205 down on a slip of paper. When the time for the examination drew near, he at length told his mother to what end he had been labouring, and asked her to grant him the assistance necessary for his journey and the sojourn206 at Kingsmill; the small sum he had been able to save, after purchase of books, would not suffice. Mrs. Peak knew not whether to approve her son’s ambition or to try to repress it. She would welcome an improval in his prospects, but, granting success, how was he to live whilst profiting by a scholarship? And again, what did he propose to make of himself when he had spent three years in study?
‘In any case,’ was Godwin’s reply, ‘I should be sure of a good place as a teacher. But I think I might try for something in the Civil Service; there are all sorts of positions to be got.’
It was idle to discuss the future whilst the first step was still speculative207. Mrs. Peak consented to favour the attempt, and what was more, to keep it a secret until the issue should be known. It was needful to obtain leave of absence from Mr. Moxey, and Godwin, when making the request, stated for what purpose he was going to Kingsmill, though without explaining the hope which had encouraged his studies. The project seemed laudable, and his employer made no difficulties.
Godwin just missed the scholarship; of candidates in the prescribed district, he came out second.
Grievous was the disappointment. To come so near success exasperated208 his impatient temper, and for a few days his bondage209 at the chemical works seemed intolerable; he was ready for almost any venture that promised release and new scope for his fretting210 energies. But at the moment when nervous irritation211 was most acute, a remarkable act of kindness suddenly restored to him all the hopes he had abandoned. One Saturday afternoon he was summoned from his surly retreat in the garret, to speak with a visitor. On entering the sitting-room212, he found his mother in company with Miss Cadman and the Misses Lumb, and from the last-mentioned ladies, who spoke with amiable213 alternation, he learnt that they were commissioned by Sir Job Whitelaw to offer for his acceptance a three-years’ studentship at Whitelaw College. Affected by her son’s chagrin214, Mrs. Peak had disclosed the story to her sister, who had repeated it to the Misses Lumb, who in turn had made it the subject of a letter to Lady Whitelaw. It was an annual practice with Sir Job to discover some promising215 lad whom he could benefit by the payment of his fees for a longer or shorter period of college study. The hint from Twybridge came to him just at the suitable time, and, on further inquiry216, he decided to make proffer217 of this advantage to Godwin Peak. The only condition was that arrangements should be made by the student’s relatives for his support during the proposed period.
This generosity218 took away Godwin’s breath. The expenditure it represented was trifling219, but from a stranger in Sir Job’s position it had something which recalled to so fervent220 a mind the poetry of Medicean patronage221. For the moment no faintest doubt gave warning to his self-respect; he was eager to accept nobly a benefaction nobly intended.
Miss Cadman, flattered by Sir Job’s attention to her nephew, now came forward with an offer to contribute towards Godwin’s livelihood. Her supplement would eke222 into adequacy such slender allowance as the widow’s purse could afford. Details were privately223 discussed, resolves were taken. Mr. Moxey, when it was made known to him, without explanation, that Godwin was to be sent to Whitelaw College, behaved with kindness; he at once released the lad, and added a present to the salary that was due. Proper acknowledgment of the Baronet’s kindness was made by the beneficiary himself, who wrote a letter giving truer testimony224 of his mental calibre than would have been offered had he expressed himself by word of mouth. A genial87 reply summoned him to an interview as soon as he should have found an abode225 in Kingsmill. The lodging226 he had occupied during the examination was permanently227 secured, and a new period of Godwin’s life began.
For two years, that is to say until his age drew towards nineteen, Peak pursued the Arts curriculum at Whitelaw. His mood on entering decided his choice, which was left free to him. Experience of utilitarian228 chemistry had for the present made his liberal tastes predominant, and neither the splendid laboratories of Whitelaw nor the repute of its scientific Professors tempted229 him to what had once seemed his natural direction. In the second year, however, he enlarged his course by the addition of one or two classes not included in Sir Job’s design; these were paid for out of a present made to him by Mr. Gunnery.
It being customary for the regular students of Whitelaw to graduate at London University, Peak passed his matriculation, and worked on for the preliminary test then known as First B.A. In the meanwhile he rose steadily230, achieving distinction in the College. The more observant of his teachers remarked him even where he fell short of academic triumph, and among his fellow-students he had the name of a stern ‘sweater’, one not easily beaten where he had set his mind on excelling. He was not generally liked, for his mood appeared unsocial, and a repelling231 arrogance was sometimes felt in his talk. No doubt—said the more fortunate young men—he came from a very poor home, and suffered from the narrowness of his means. They noticed that he did not subscribe232 to the College Union, and that he could never join in talk regarding the diversions of the town. His two or three intimates were chosen from among those contemporaries who read hard and dressed poorly.
The details of Godwin’s private life were noteworthy. Accustomed hitherto to a domestic circle, at Kingsmill he found himself isolated233, and it was not easy for him to surrender all at once the comforts of home. For a time he felt as though his ambition were a delinquency which entailed234 the punishment of loneliness. Nor did his relations with Sir Job Whitelaw tend to mitigate235 this feeling. In his first interview with the Baronet, Godwin showed to little advantage. A deadly bashfulness forbade him to be natural either in attitude or speech. He felt his dependence62 in a way he had not foreseen; the very clothes he wore, then fresh from the tailor’s, seemed to be the gift of charity, and their stiffness shamed him. A man of the world, Sir Job could make allowance for these defects. He understood that the truest kindness would be to leave a youth such as this to the forming influences of the College. So Godwin barely had a glimpse of Lady Whitelaw in her husband’s study, and thereafter for many months he saw nothing of his benefactors236. Subsequently he was twice invited to interviews with Sir Job, who talked with kindness and commendation. Then came the Baronet’s death. Godwin received an assurance that this event would be no check upon his career, but he neither saw nor heard directly from Lady Whitelaw.
Not a house in Kingsmill opened hospitable237 doors to the lonely student; nor was anyone to blame for this. With no family had he friendly acquaintance. When, towards the end of his second year, he grew sufficiently238 intimate with Buckland Warricombe to walk out with him to Thornhaw, it could be nothing more than a scarcely welcome exception to the rule of solitude239. Impossible for him to cultivate the friendship of such people as the Warricombes, with their large and joyous240 scheme of life. Only at a hearth241 where homeliness242 and cordiality united to unthaw his proud reserve could Godwin perchance have found the companionship he needed. Many such homes existed in Kingsmill, but no kindly fortune led the young man within the sphere of their warmth.
His lodgings243 were in a very ugly street in the ugliest outskirts of the town; he had to take a long walk through desolate244 districts (brick-yard, sordid245 pasture, degenerate246 village) before he could refresh his eyes with the rural scenery which was so great a joy to him as almost to be a necessity. The immediate247 vicinage offered nothing but monotone of grimy, lower middle-class dwellings248, occasionally relieved by a public-house. He occupied two rooms, not unreasonably249 clean, and was seldom disturbed by the attentions of his landlady250.
An impartial251 observer might have wondered at the negligence252 which left him to arrange his life as best he could, notwithstanding youth and utter inexperience. It looked indeed as if there were no one in the world who cared what became of him. Yet this was merely the result of his mother’s circumstances, and of his own character. Mrs Peak could do no more than make her small remittances253, and therewith send an occasional admonition regarding his health. She did not, in fact, conceive the state of things, imagining that the authority and supervisal of the College extended over her son’s daily existence, whereas it was possible for Godwin to frequent lectures or not, to study or to waste his time, pretty much as he chose, subject only to official inquiry if his attendance became frequently irregular. His independent temper, and the seeming maturity254 of his mind, supplied another excuse for the imprudent confidence which left him to his own resources. Yet the perils255 of the situation were great indeed. A youth of less concentrated purpose, more at the mercy of casual allurement256, would probably have gone to wreck257 amid trials so exceptional.
Trials not only of his moral nature. The sums of money with which he was furnished fell short of a reasonable total for bare necessities. In the calculation made by Mrs. Peak and her sister, outlay258 on books had practically been lost sight of; it was presumed that ten shillings a term would cover this item. But Godwin could not consent to be at a disadvantage in his armoury for academic contest. The first month saw him compelled to contract his diet, that he might purchase books; thenceforth he rarely had enough to eat. His landlady supplied him with breakfast, tea, and supper—each repast of the very simplest kind; for dinner it was understood that he repaired to some public table, where meat and vegetables, with perchance a supplementary sweet when nature demanded it, might be had for about a shilling. That shilling was not often at his disposal. Dinner as it is understood by the comfortably clad, the ‘regular meal’ which is a part of English respectability, came to be represented by a small pork-pie, or even a couple of buns, eaten at the little shop over against the College. After a long morning of mental application this was poor refreshment259; the long afternoon which followed, again spent in rigorous study, could not but reduce a growing frame to ravenous260 hunger. Tea and buttered bread were the means of appeasing261 it, until another four hours’ work called for reward in the shape of bread and cheese. Even yet the day’s toil262 was not ended. Godwin sometimes read long after midnight, with the result that, when at length he tried to sleep, exhaustion263 of mind and body kept him for a long time feverishly264 wakeful.
These hardships he concealed265 from the people at Twybridge. Complaint, it seemed to him, would be ungrateful, for sacrifices were already made on his behalf. His father, as he well remembered, was wont266 to relate, with a kind of angry satisfaction, the miseries267 through which he had fought his way to education and the income-tax. Old enough now to reflect with compassionate268 understanding upon that life of conflict, Godwin resolved that he too would bear the burdens inseparable from poverty, and in some moods was even glad to suffer as his father had done. Fortunately he had a sound basis of health, and hunger and vigils would not easily affect his constitution. If, thus hampered269, he could outstrip270 competitors who had every advantage of circumstance, the more glorious his triumph.
Sunday was an interval271 of leisure. Rejoicing in deliverance from Sabbatarianism, he generally spent the morning in a long walk, and the rest of the day was devoted to non-collegiate reading. He had subscribed272 to a circulating library, and thus obtained new publications recommended to him in the literary paper which again taxed his stomach. Mere156 class-work did not satisfy him. He was possessed273 with throes of spiritual desire, impelling274 him towards that world of unfettered speculation42 which he had long indistinctly imagined. It was a great thing to learn what the past could teach, to set himself on the common level of intellectual men; but he understood that college learning could not be an end in itself, that the Professors to whom he listened either did not speak out all that was in their minds, or, if they did, were far from representing the advanced guard of modern thought. With eagerness he at length betook himself to the teachers of philosophy and of geology. Having paid for these lectures out of his own pocket, he felt as if he had won a privilege beyond the conventional course of study, an initiation275 to a higher sphere of intellect. The result was disillusion276. Not even in these class-rooms could he hear the word for which he waited, the bold annunciation of newly discovered law, the science which had completely broken with tradition. He came away unsatisfied, and brooded upon the possibilities which would open for him when he was no longer dependent.
His evening work at home was subject to a disturbance277 which would have led him to seek other lodgings, could he have hoped to find any so cheap as these. The landlady’s son, a lank278 youth of the clerk species, was wont to amuse himself from eight to ten with practice on a piano. By dint279 of perseverance he had learned to strum two or three hymnal melodies popularised by American evangelists; occasionally he even added the charm of his voice, which had a pietistic nasality not easily endured by an ear of any refinement280. Not only was Godwin harassed281 by the recurrence282 of these performances; the tunes283 worked themselves into his brain, and sometimes throughout a whole day their burden clanged and squalled incessantly284 on his mental hearing. He longed to entreat285 forbearance from the musician, but an excess of delicacy—which always ruled his behaviour—kept him silent. Certain passages in the classics, and many an elaborate mathematical formula, long retained for him an association with the cadences286 of revivalist hymnody.
Like all proud natures condemned to solitude, he tried to convince himself that he had no need of society, that he despised its attractions, and could be self-sufficing. So far was this from the truth that he often regarded with bitter envy those of his fellow-students who had the social air, who conversed287 freely among their equals, and showed that the pursuits of the College were only a part of their existence. These young men were either preparing for the University, or would pass from Whitelaw to business, profession, official training; in any case, a track was marked out for them by the zealous care of relatives and friends, and their efforts would always be aided, applauded, by a kindly circle. Some of them Godwin could not but admire, so healthful were they, so bright of intellect, and courteous288 in manner,—a type distinct from any he had formerly289 observed. Others were antipathetic to him. Their aggressive gentility conflicted with the wariness290 of his self-esteem; such a one, for instance, as Bruno Chilvers, the sound of whose mincing291 voice, as he read in the class, so irritated him that at times he had to cover his ears. Yet, did it chance that one of these offensive youths addressed a civil word to him, on the instant his prejudice was disarmed292, and his emotions flowed forth in a response to which he would gladly have given free expression. When he was invited to meet the relatives of Buckland Warricombe, shyness prepossessed him against them; but the frank kindness of his reception moved him, and on going away he was ashamed to have replied so boorishly293 to attentions so amiably294 meant. The same note of character sounded in what personal intercourse he had with the Professors. Though his spirit of criticism was at times busy with these gentlemen, he had for most of them a profound regard; and to be elected by one or other for a word of commendation, a little private assistance, a well-phrased inquiry as to his progress, always made his heart beat high with gratitude295. They were his first exemplars of finished courtesy, of delicate culture; and he could never sufficiently regret that no one of them was aware how thankfully he recognised his debt.
In longing296 for the intimacy297 of refined people, he began to modify his sentiments with regard to the female sex. His first prize-day at Whitelaw was the first occasion on which he sat in an assembly where ladies (as he understood the title) could be seen and heard. The impression he received was deep and lasting298. On the seat behind him were two girls whose intermittent299 talk held him with irresistible300 charm throughout the whole ceremony. He had not imagined that girls could display such intelligence, and the sweet clearness of their intonation301, the purity of their accent, the grace of their habitual175 phrases, were things altogether beyond his experience. This was not the English he had been wont to hear on female lips. His mother and his aunt spoke with propriety302; their associates were soft-tongued; but here was something quite different from inoffensiveness of tone and diction. Godwin appreciated the differentiating303 cause. These young ladies behind him had been trained from the cradle to speak for the delight of fastidious ears; that they should be grammatical was not enough—they must excel in the art of conversational304 music. Of course there existed a world where only such speech was interchanged, and how inestimably happy those men to whom the sphere was native!
When the proceedings305 were over, he drew aside and watched the two girls as they mingled52 with acquaintances; he kept them in view until they left the College. An emotion such as this he had never known; for the first time in his life he was humiliated306 without embitterment307.
The bitterness came when he had returned to his home in the back street of Twybridge, and was endeavouring to spend the holidays in a hard ‘grind’. He loathed308 the penurious309 simplicity310 to which his life was condemned; all familiar circumstances were become petty, coarse, vulgar, in his eyes; the contrast with the idealised world of his ambition plunged311 him into despair: Even Mr. Gunnery seemed an ignoble312 figure when compared with the Professors of Whitelaw, and his authority in the sciences was now subjected to doubt. However much or little might result from the three years at College, it was clear to Godwin that his former existence had passed into infinite remoteness; he was no longer fit for Twybridge, no longer a companion for his kindred. Oliver, whose dulness as a schoolboy gave no promise of future achievements, was now learning the business of a seedsman; his brother felt ashamed when he saw him at work in the shop, and had small patience with the comrades to whom Oliver dedicated313 his leisure. Charlotte was estranged314 by religious differences. Only for his mother did the young man show increased consideration. To his aunt he endeavoured to be grateful, but his behaviour in her presence was elaborate hypocrisy315. Hating the necessity for this, he laid the blame on fortune, which had decreed his birth in a social sphere where he must ever be an alien.
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1
equitably
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| 公平地 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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expend
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| vt.花费，消费，消耗 | |
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supplementary
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| adj.补充的，附加的 | |
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exchequer
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| n.财政部；国库 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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pensioner
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| n.领养老金的人 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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censures
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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taxation
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| n.征税，税收，税金 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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potentate
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| n.统治者；君主 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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abounding
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| adj.丰富的，大量的v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的现在分词 ) | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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69
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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70
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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71
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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72
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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73
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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74
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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75
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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76
precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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77
discursive
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| adj.离题的，无层次的 | |
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78
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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79
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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80
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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81
imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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82
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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83
antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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84
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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85
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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87
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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88
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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89
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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90
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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91
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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92
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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93
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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94
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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95
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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96
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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97
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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98
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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99
dabbler
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| n. 戏水者, 业余家, 半玩半认真做的人 | |
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100
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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101
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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102
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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103
investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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104
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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105
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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106
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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107
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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108
geologist
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| n.地质学家 | |
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109
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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110
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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111
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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112
testy
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| adj.易怒的；暴躁的 | |
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113
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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114
quartz
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| n.石英 | |
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115
instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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116
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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117
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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118
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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119
rankled
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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121
geologic
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| adj.地质的 | |
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122
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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123
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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124
pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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125
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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126
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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127
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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128
contemns
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| v.侮辱，蔑视( contemn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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129
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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130
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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131
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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132
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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133
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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134
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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135
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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136
censured
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的过去式 ) | |
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137
trenchant
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| adj.尖刻的，清晰的 | |
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138
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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139
pertinent
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| adj.恰当的；贴切的；中肯的；有关的；相干的 | |
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140
justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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141
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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142
notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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143
pliant
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| adj.顺从的；可弯曲的 | |
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144
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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145
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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146
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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147
immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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148
aloof
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|
| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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149
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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150
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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151
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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152
inchoate
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| adj.才开始的，初期的 | |
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153
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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154
militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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155
judicious
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|
| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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156
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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157
provender
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| n.刍草；秣料 | |
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158
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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159
licensed
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| adj.得到许可的v.许可，颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
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160
procure
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|
| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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161
viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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162
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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163
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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164
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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165
prospering
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的现在分词 ) | |
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166
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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167
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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168
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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169
metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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170
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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171
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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172
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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173
filthiest
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| filthy（肮脏的，污秽的）的最高级形式 | |
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174
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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176
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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177
geographic
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| adj.地理学的，地理的 | |
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178
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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179
algebra
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| n.代数学 | |
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180
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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181
dubbing
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|
| n.配音v.给…起绰号( dub的现在分词 )；把…称为；配音；复制 | |
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182
pinnacled
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| 小尖塔般耸立的，顶处的 | |
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183
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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184
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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185
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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186
lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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187
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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188
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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189
monotonous
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|
| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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190
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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191
sullenness
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| n. 愠怒, 沉闷, 情绪消沉 | |
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192
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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193
dolorous
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| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
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194
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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195
condonation
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| n.容忍，宽恕，原谅 | |
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196
chafed
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|
| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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197
subjugation
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| n.镇压，平息，征服 | |
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198
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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199
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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200
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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201
restiveness
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| n.倔强，难以驾御 | |
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202
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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203
attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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204
grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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205
jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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206
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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207
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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208
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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209
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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210
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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211
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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212
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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213
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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214
chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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215
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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216
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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217
proffer
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| v.献出，赠送；n.提议，建议 | |
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218
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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219
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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220
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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221
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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222
eke
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| v.勉强度日，节约使用 | |
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223
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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224
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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225
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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226
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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227
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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228
utilitarian
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| adj.实用的，功利的 | |
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229
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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230
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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231
repelling
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| v.击退( repel的现在分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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232
subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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233
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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234
entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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235
mitigate
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| vt.（使）减轻，（使）缓和 | |
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236
benefactors
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| n.捐助者，施主( benefactor的名词复数 )；恩人 | |
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237
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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238
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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239
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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240
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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241
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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242
homeliness
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| n.简朴，朴实；相貌平平 | |
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243
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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244
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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245
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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246
degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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247
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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248
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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249
unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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250
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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251
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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252
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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253
remittances
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| n.汇寄( remittance的名词复数 )；汇款，汇款额 | |
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254
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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255
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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256
allurement
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| n.诱惑物 | |
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257
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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258
outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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259
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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260
ravenous
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| adj.极饿的，贪婪的 | |
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261
appeasing
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的现在分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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262
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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263
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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264
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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265
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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266
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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267
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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268
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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269
hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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270
outstrip
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| v.超过，跑过 | |
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271
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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272
subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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273
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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274
impelling
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| adj.迫使性的，强有力的v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的现在分词 ) | |
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275
initiation
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| n.开始 | |
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276
disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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277
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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278
lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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279
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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280
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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281
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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282
recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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283
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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284
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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285
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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286
cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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287
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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288
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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289
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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290
wariness
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| n. 注意,小心 | |
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291
mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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292
disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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293
boorishly
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294
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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295
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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296
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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297
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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298
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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299
intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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300
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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301
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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302
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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303
differentiating
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| [计] 微分的 | |
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304
conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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305
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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306
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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307
embitterment
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308
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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309
penurious
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| adj.贫困的 | |
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310
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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311
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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312
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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313
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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314
estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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315
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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