Every house has its skeleton in it somewhere, and it may be a comfort to some unhappy folks to think that the luckier and most wealthy of their neighbours have their miseries1 and causes of disquiet2. Our little innocent Muse3 of Blanche, who sang so nicely and talked so sweetly, you would have thought she must have made sunshine where ever she went, was the skeleton, or the misery4, or the bore, or the Nemesis5 of Clavering House, and of most of the inhabitants thereof. As one little stone in your own shoe or your horse’s, suffices to put either to torture and to make your journey miserable6, so in life a little obstacle is sufficient to obstruct7 your entire progress, and subject you to endless annoyance8 and disquiet. Who would have guessed that such a smiling little fairy as Blanche Amory could be the cause of discord9 in any family?
“I say, Strong,” one day the Baronet said, as the pair were conversing11 after dinner over the billiard-table, and that great unbosomer of secrets, a cigar; “I say, Strong, I wish to the doose your wife was dead.”
“So do I. That’s a cannon12, by Jove. But she won’t; she’ll live for ever — you see if she don’t. Why do you wish her off the hooks, Frank, my boy?” asked Captain Strong.
“Because then you might marry Missy. She ain’t bad-looking. She’ll have ten thousand, and that’s a good bit of money for such a poor old devil as you,” drawled out the other gentleman.
“And gad13, Strong, I hate her worse and worse every day. I can’t stand her, Strong, by gad, I can’t.”
“I wouldn’t take her at twice the figure,” Captain Strong said, laughing. “I never saw such a little devil in my life.”
“I should like to poison her,” said the sententious Baronet; “by Jove I should,”
“Why, what has she been at now?” asked his friend.
“Nothing particular,” answered Sir Francis; “only her old tricks. That girl has such a knack14 of making everybody miserable that, hang me, it’s quite surprising. Last night she sent the governess crying away from the dinner-table. Afterwards, as I was passing Frank’s room, I heard the poor little beggar howling in the dark, and found his sister had been frightening his soul out of his body, by telling him stories about the ghost that’s in the house. At lunch she gave my lady a turn; and though my wife’s a fool, she’s a good soul — I’m hanged if she ain’t.”
“What did Missy do to her?” Strong asked.
“Why, hang me, if she didn’t begin talking about the late Amory, my predecessor,” the Baronet said, with a grin. “She got some picture out of the Keepsake, and said she was sure it was like her dear father, She wanted to know where her father’s grave was. Hang her father! Whenever Miss Amory talks about him, Lady Clavering always bursts out crying: and the little devil will talk about him in order to spite her mother. Today when she began, I got in a confounded rage; said I was her father; and — and that sort of thing, and then, sir, she took a shy at me.”
“And what did she say about you, Frank?” Mr. Strong, still laughing, inquired of his friend and patron.
“Gad, she said I wasn’t her father; that I wasn’t fit to comprehend her; that her father must have been a man of genius, and fine feelings, and that sort of thing: whereas I had married her mother for money.”
“Well, didn’t you?” asked Strong.
“It don’t make it any the pleasanter to hear because it’s true, don’t you know,” Sir Francis Clavering answered. “I ain’t a literary man and that; but I ain’t such a fool as she makes me out. I don’t know how it is, but she always manages to put me in the hole, don’t you understand. She turns all the house round her in her quiet way, and with her confounded sentimental17 airs. I wish she was dead, Ned.”
“It was my wife whom you wanted dead just now,” Strong said, always in perfect good-humour; upon which the Baron10 with his accustomed candour, said, “Well; when people bore my life out, I do wish they were dead, and I wish Missy were down a well, with all my heart.”
Thus it will be seen from the above report of this candid18 conversation that our accomplished19 little friend had some peculiarities20 or defects of character which rendered her not very popular. She was a young lady of some genius, exquisite21 sympathies and considerable literary attainments22, living, like many another genius, with relatives who could not comprehend her. Neither her mother nor her stepfather were persons of a literary turn. Bell’s Life and the Racing23 Calendar were the extent of the Baronet’s reading, and Lady Clavering still wrote like a schoolgirl of thirteen, and with an extraordinary disregard to grammar and spelling. And as Miss Amory felt very keenly that she was not appreciated, and that she lived with persons who were not her equals in intellect or conversational24 power, she lost no opportunity to acquaint her family circle with their inferiority to herself, and not only was a martyr25, but took care to let everybody know that she was so. If she suffered, as she said and thought she did, severely26, are we to wonder that a young creature of such delicate sensibilities should shriek27 and cry out a good deal? Without sympathy life is nothing; and would it not have been a want of candour on her part to affect a cheerfulness which she did not feel, or pretend a respect for those towards whom it was quite impossible she should entertain any reverence28? If a poetess may not bemoan29 her lot, of what earthly use is her lyre? Blanche struck hers only to the saddest of tunes30; and sang elegies31 over her dead hopes, dirges32 over her early frost-nipt buds of affection, as became such a melancholy33 fate and Muse.
Her actual distresses34, as we have said, had not been up to the present time very considerable: but her griefs lay; like those of most of us, in her own soul — that being sad and habitually35 dissatisfied, what wonder that she should weep? So Mes Larmes dribbled36 out of her eyes any day at command: she could furnish an unlimited37 supply of tears, and her faculty38 of shedding them increased by practice. For sentiment is like another complaint mentioned by Horace, as increasing by self-indulgence (I am sorry to say, ladies, that the complaint in question is called the dropsy), and the more you cry, the more you will be able and desirous to do so.
Missy had begun to gush39 at a very early age. Lamartine was her favourite bard40 from the period when she first could feel: and she had subsequently improved her mind by a sedulous41 study of novels of the great modern authors of the French language. There was not a romance of Balzac and George Sand which the indefatigable42 little creature had not devoured43 — by the time she was sixteen: and, however little she sympathised with her relatives at home, she had friends, as she said, in the spirit-world, meaning the tender Indiana, the passionate44 and poetic45 Lelia, the amiable46 Trenmor, that high-souled convict, that angel of the galleys,— the fiery47 Stenio,— and the other numberless heroes of the French romances. She had been in love with Prince Rodolph and Prince Djalma while she was yet at school, and had settled the divorce question, and the rights of woman, with Indiana, before she had left off pinafores. The impetuous little lady played at love with these imaginary worthies48 as a little while before she had played at maternity49 with her doll. Pretty little poetical50 spirits! It is curious to watch them with those playthings. To-day the blue-eyed one is the favourite, and the black-eyed one is pushed behind the drawers. To-morrow blue-eyes may take its turn of neglect and it may be an odious51 little wretch52 with a burnt nose, or torn bead53 of hair, and no eyes at all, that takes the first place in Miss’s affection, and is dandled and caressed54 in her arms.
As novelists are supposed to know everything, even the secrets of female hearts, which the owners themselves do not perhaps know, we may state that at eleven years of age Mademoiselle Betsi, as Miss Amory was then called, had felt tender emotions towards a young Savoyard organ-grinder at Paris, whom she Persisted in believing to be a prince carried off from his parents; that at twelve an old and hideous55 drawing-master (but, ah, what age or personal defects are proof against woman’s love?) had agitated56 her young heart; and that, at thirteen, being at Madame de Caramel’s boarding-school, in the Champs Elysees, which, as everybody knows, is next door to Monsieur Rogron’s (Chevalier of the Legion of Honour) pension for young gentlemen, a correspondence by letter took place between the seduisante Miss Betsi and two young gentlemen of the College of Charlemagne, who were pensioners57 of the Chevalier Rogron.
In the above paragraph our young friend has been called by a Christian58 name different to that under which we were lately presented to her. The fact is, that Miss Amory, called Missy at home, had really at the first been christened Betsy — but assumed the name of Blanche of her own will and fantasy, and crowned herself with it; and the weapon which the Baronet, her stepfather, held in terror over her, was the threat to call her publicly by her name of Betsy, by which menace he sometimes managed to keep the young rebel in order.
We have spoken just now of children’s dolls, and of the manner in which those little people take up and neglect their darling toys, and very likely this history will show that Miss Blanche assumed and put away her live dolls with a similar girlish inconstancy. She had had hosts of dear, dear, darling, friends ere now, and had quite a little museum of locks of hair in her treasure-chest, which she had gathered in the course of her sentimental progress. Some dear friends had married: some had gone to other schools: one beloved sister she had lost from the pension, and found again, O, horror! her darling, her Leocadie keeping the books in her father’s shop, a grocer in the Rue16 du Bac: in fact, she had met with a number of disappointments, estrangements, disillusionments, as she called them in her pretty French jargon60, and had seen and suffered a great deal for so young a woman. But it is the lot of sensibility to suffer, and of confiding61 tenderness to be deceived, and she felt that she was only undergoing the penalties of genius in these pangs62 and disappointments of her young career.
Meanwhile, she managed to make the honest lady, her mother, as uncomfortable as circumstances would permit; and caused her worthy63 stepfather to wish she was dead. With the exception of Captain Strong, whose invincible64 good-humour was proof against her sarcasms65, the little lady ruled the whole house with he tongue. If Lady Clavering talked about Sparrowgrass instead of Asparagus, or called an object a hobject, as this unfortunate lady would sometimes do, Missy calmly corrected her, and frightened the good soul, her mother, into errors only the more frequent as she grew more nervous under her daughter’s eye.
It is not to be supposed, considering the vast interest which the arrival of the family at Clavering Park inspired in the inhabitants of the little town, that Madame Fribsby alone, of all the folks in Clavering, should have remained unmoved and incurious. At the first appearance of the Park family in church, Madame noted66 every article of toilette which the ladies wore, from their bonnets67 to their brodequins, and took a survey of the attire68 of the ladies’ maids in the pew allotted69 to them. We fear that Doctor Portman’s sermon, though it was one of his oldest and most valued compositions, had little effect upon Madame Fribsby on that day.
In a very few days afterwards, she had managed for herself an interview with Lady Clavering’s confidential70 attendant in the housekeeper’s room at the Park; and her cards in French and English, stating that she received the newest fashions from Paris from her correspondent Madame Victorine, and that she was in the custom of making court and ball dresses for the nobility and gentry71 of the shire, were in the possession of Lady Clavering and Miss Amory, and favourably72 received, as she was happy to hear, by those ladies.
Mrs. Bonner, Lady Clavering’s lady, became soon a great frequenter of Madame Fribsby’s drawing-room, and partook of many entertainments at the milliner’s expense. A meal of green tea, scandal, hot Sally-Lunn cakes, and a little novel reading, were always at the service of Mrs. Bonner, whenever she was free to pass an evening in the town. And she found much more time for these pleasures than her junior officer, Miss Amory’s maid, who seldom could be spared for a holiday, and was worked as hard as any factory-girl by that inexorable little Muse, her mistress.
The Muse loved to be dressed becomingly, and, having a lively fancy and a poetic desire for change, was for altering her attire every day. Her maid having a taste in dressmaking — to which art she had been an apprentice73 at Paris, before she entered into Miss Blanche’s service there — was kept from morning till night altering and remodelling74 Miss Amory’s habiliments; and rose very early and went to bed very late, in obedience75 to the untiring caprices of her little taskmistress. The girl was of respectable English parents. There are many of our people, colonists76 of Paris, who have seen better days, who are not quite ruined, who do not quite live upon charity, and yet cannot get on without it; and as her father was a cripple incapable77 of work, and her return home would only increase the burthen and add to the misery of the family, poor Pincott was fain to stay where she could maintain herself, and spare a little relief to her parents.
Our Muse, with the candour which distinguished78 her, never failed to remind her attendant of the real state of matters. “I should send you away, Pincott, for you are a great deal too weak, and your eyes are failing you, and you are always crying and snivelling and wanting the doctor; but I wish that your parents at home should be supported, and I go on enduring you for their sake, mind,” the dear Blanche would say to her timid little attendant. Or, “Pincott, your wretched appearance and slavish manner, and red eyes, positively79 give me the migraine; and I think I shall make you wear rouge80, so that you may look a little cheerful;” or, “Pincott, I can’t bear, even for the sake of your starving parents, that you should tear my hair out of my head in that manner; and I will thank you to write to them and say that I dispense81 with your services.” After which sort of speeches, and after keeping her for an hour trembling over her hair, which the young lady loved to have combed, as she perused82 one of her favourite French novels, she would go to bed at one o’clock, and say, “Pincott, you may kiss me. Good night. I should like you to have the pink dress ready for the morning.” And so with blessing83 upon her attendant, she would turn round and go to sleep.
The Muse might lie in bed as long as she chose of a morning, and availed herself of that privilege; but Pincott had to rise very early indeed to get her mistress’s task done; and had to appear next day with the same red eyes and the same wan15 face, which displeased84 Miss Amory by their want of gaiety, and caused the mistress to be so angry, because the servant persisted in being and looking unwell and unhappy. Not that Blanche ever thought she was a hard mistress. Indeed, she made quite a friend of Pincott, at times, and wrote some very pretty verses about the lonely little tiring-maid, whose heart was far away. Our beloved Blanche was a superior being, and expected to be waited upon as such. And I do not know whether there are any other ladies in this world who treat their servants or dependants85 so, but it may be that there are such, and that the tyranny which they exercise over their subordinates, and the pangs which they can manage to inflict86 with a soft voice, and a well-bred simper, are as cruel as those which a slave-driver administers with an oath and a whip.
But Blanche was a Muse — a delicate little creature, quite tremulous with excitability, whose eyes filled with tears at the smallest emotion; and who knows, but that it was the very fineness of her feelings which caused them to be froissed so easily? You crush a butterfly by merely touching87 it. Vulgar people have no idea of the sensibility of a Muse.
So little Pincott being occupied all day and night in stitching, hemming88, ripping, combing, ironing, crimping, for her mistress; reading to her when in bed,— for the girl was mistress of the two languages, and had a sweet voice and manner — could take no share in Madame Fribsby’s soirees, nor indeed was she much missed, or considered of sufficient consequence to appear at their entertainments.
But there was another person connected with the Clavering establishment, who became a constant guest of our friend, the milliner. This was the chief of the kitchen, Monsieur Mirobolant, with whom Madame Fribsby soon formed an intimacy89.
Not having been accustomed to the appearance or society of persons of the French nation, the rustic90 inhabitants of Clavering were not so favourably impressed by Monsieur Alcide’s manners and appearance, as that gentleman might have desired that they should be. He walked among them quite unsuspiciously upon the afternoon of a summer day, when his services were not required at the House, in his usual favourite costume, namely, his light green frock or paletot, his crimson91 velvet92 waistcoat, with blue glass buttons, his pantalon Ecossais, of a very large and decided93 check pattern, his orange satin neckcloth, and his jean-boots, with tips of shiny leather,— these, with a gold-embroidered cap, and a richly gilt94 cane95, or other varieties of ornament96 of a similar tendency, formed his usual holiday costume, in which he flattered himself there was nothing remarkable97 (unless, indeed, the beauty of his person should attract observation), and in which he considered that he exhibited the appearance of a gentleman of good Parisian ton.
He walked then down the street, grinning and ogling98 every woman he met with glances, which he meant should kill them outright99, and peered over the railings, and in at the windows, where females were, in the tranquil100 summer evening. But Betsy, Mrs. Pybus’s maid, shrank back with a Lor bless us, as Alcide ogled101 her over the laurel-bush; the Miss Bakers102, and their mamma, stared with wonder; and presently a crowd began to follow the interesting foreigner, of ragged103 urchins104 and children, who left their dirt-pies in the street to pursue him.
For some time he thought that admiration105 was the cause which led these persons in his wake, and walked on, pleased himself that he could so easily confer on others so much harmless pleasure. But the little children and dirt-pie manufacturers were presently succeeded by followers106 of a larger growth, and a number of lads and girls from the factory being let loose at this hour, joined the mob, and began laughing, jeering107, hooting108, and calling opprobrious109 names at the Frenchman. Some cried out “Frenchy! Frenchy!” some exclaimed “Frogs!” one asked for a lock of his hair, which was long and in richly-flowing ringlets; and at length the poor artist began to perceive that he was an object of derision rather than of respect to the rude grinning mob.
It was at this juncture110 that Madame Fribsby spied the unlucky gentleman with the train at his heels, and heard the scornful shouts with which they assailed111 him. She ran out of her room, and across the street to the persecuted112 foreigner; she held out her hand, and, addressing him in his own language, invited him into her abode113; and when she had housed him fairly within her door, she stood bravely at the threshold before the gibing114 factory girls and boys, and said they were a pack of cowards to insult a poor man who could not speak their language, and was alone and without protection. The little crowd, with some ironical115 cheers and hootings, nevertheless felt the force of Madame Fribsby’s vigorous allocution, and retreated before her; for the old lady was rather respected in the place, and her oddity and her kindness had made her many friends there.
Poor Mirobolant was grateful indeed to hear the language of his country ever so ill spoken. Frenchmen pardon our faults in their language much more readily than we excuse their bad English; and will face our blunders throughout a long conversation, without the least propensity116 to grin. The rescued artist vowed117 that Madame Fribsby was his guardian118 angel, and that he had not as yet met with such suavity119 and politeness among les Anglaises. He was as courteous120 and complimentary121 to her as if it was the fairest and noblest of ladies whom he was addressing for Alcide Mirobolant paid homage122 after his fashion to all womankind, and never dreamed of a distinction of ranks in the realms of beauty, as his phrase was.
A cream, flavoured with pineapple — a mayonnaise of lobster123, which he flattered himself was not unworthy of his hand, or of her to whom he had the honour to offer it as an homage, and a box of preserved fruits of Provence, were brought by one of the chef’s aides-de-camp, in a basket, the next day to the milliner’s, and were accompanied with a gallant124 note to the amiable Madame Fribsbi. “Her kindness,” Alcide said, “had made a green place in the desert of his existence,— her suavity would ever contrast in memory with the grossierete of the rustic population, who were not worthy to possess such a jewel.” An intimacy of the most confidential nature thus sprang up between the milliner and the chief of the kitchen; but I do not know whether it was with pleasure or mortification125 that Madame received the declarations of friendship which the young Alcides proffered126 to her, for he persisted in calling her “La respectable Fribsbi,” “La vertueuse Fribsbi,”— and in stating that he should consider her as his mother, while he hoped she would regard him as her son. Ah! it was not very long ago, Fribsby thought, that words had been addressed to her in that dear French language, indicating a different sort of attachment127. And she sighed as she looked up at the picture of her Carabineer. For it is surprising how young some people’s hearts remain when their heads have need of a front or a little hair-dye,— and, at this moment, Madame Fribsby, as she told young Alcide, felt as romantic as a girl of eighteen.
When the conversation took this turn — and at their first intimacy Madame Fribsby was rather inclined so to lead it — Alcide always politely diverged128 to another subject: it was as his mother that he persisted in considering the good milliner. He would recognise her in no other capacity, and with that relationship the gentle lady was forced to content herself, when she found how deeply the artist’s heart was engaged elsewhere.
He was not long before he described to her the subject and origin of his passion.
“I declared myself to her,” said Alcide, laying his hand on his heart, “in a manner which was as novel as I am charmed to think it was agreeable. Where cannot Love penetrate129, respectable Madame Fribsbi? Cupid is the father of invention!— I inquired of the domestics what were the plats of which Mademoiselle partook with most pleasure; and built up my little battery accordingly. On a day when her parents had gone to dine in the world (and I am grieved to say that a grossier dinner at a restaurateur, in the Boulevard, or in the Palais Royal seemed to form the delights of these unrefined persons), the charming Miss entertained some comrades of the pension; and I advised myself to send up a little repast suitable to so delicate young palates. Her lovely name is Blanche. The name of the maiden130 is white; the wreath of roses which she wears is white. I determined131 that my dinner should be as spotless as the snow. At her accustomed hour, and instead of the rude gigot a l’eau, which was ordinarily served at her too simple table, I sent her up a little potage a la Reine — a la Reine Blanche I called it,— as white as her own tint132 — and confectioned with the most fragrant133 cream and almonds. I then offered up at her shrine134 a filet135 de merlan a l’gnes, and a delicate plat which I designated as Eperlan a la Sainte-Therese, and of which my charming Miss partook with pleasure. I followed this by two little entrees136 of sweetbread and chicken; and the only brown thing which I permitted myself in the entertainment was a little roast of lamb, which I lay in a meadow of spinaches, surrounded with croustillons, representing sheep, and ornamented137 with daisies and other savage138 flowers. After this came my second service: a pudding a la Reine Elizabeth (who, Madame Fribsbi knows, was a maiden princess); a dish of opal-coloured plover’s eggs which I called Nid de tourtereaux a la Roucoule; placing in the midst of them two of those tender volatiles, billing each other, and confectioned with butter; a basket containing little gateaux of apricots, which, I know, all young ladies adore; and a jelly of marasquin, bland139 insinuating140, intoxicating141 as the glance of beauty. This I designated Ambroisie de Calypso a la Souveraine de mon Coeur. And when the ice was brought in-an ice of plombiere and cherries — how do you think I had shaped them, Madame Fribsbi? In the form of two hearts united with an arrow, on which I had laid, before it entered, a bridal veil in cut-paper, surmounted142 by a wreath of virginal orange-flowers. I stood at the door to watch the effect of this entry. It was but one cry of admiration. The three young ladies filled their glasses with the sparkling Ay, and carried me in a toast. I heard it — I heard Miss speak of me — I heard her say, ‘Tell Monsieur Mirobolant that we thank him — we admire him — we love him!’ My feet almost failed me as she spoke59.
“Since that, can I have any reason to doubt that the young artist has made some progress in the heart of the English Miss? I am modest, but my glass informs me that I am not ill-looking. Other victories have convinced me of the fact.”
“Dangerous man!” cried the milliner.
“The blond misses of Albion see nothing in the dull inhabitants of their brumous isle143, which can compare with the ardour and vivacity144 of the children of the South. We bring our sunshine with us; we are Frenchmen, and accustomed to conquer. Were it not for this affair of the heart, and my determination to marry an Anglaise, do you think I would stop in this island (which is not altogether ungrateful, since I have found here a tender mother in the respectable Madame Fribsbi), in this island, in this family? My genius would use itself in the company of these rustics145 — the poesy of my art cannot be understood by these carnivorous insularies. No — the men are odious, but the women — the women! I own, dear Fribsbi, are seducing146! I have vowed to marry one; and as I cannot go into your markets and purchase, according to the custom of the country, I am resolved to adopt another custom, and fly with one to Gretna Grin. The blonde Miss will go. She is fascinated. Her eyes have told me so. The white dove wants but the signal to fly.”
“Have you any correspondence with her?” asked Fribsby, in amazement147, and not knowing whether the young lady or the lover might be labouring under a romantic delusion148.
“I correspond with her by means of my art. She partakes of dishes which I make expressly for her. I insinuate149 to her thus a thousand hints which as she is perfectly150 spiritual, she receives. But I want other intelligences near her.”
“There is Pincott, her maid,” said Madame Fribsby, who, by aptitude151 or education, seemed to have some knowledge of affairs of the heart, but the great artist’s brow darkened at this suggestion.
“Madame,” he said, “there are points upon which a gallant man ought to silence himself; though, if he break the secret, he may do so with the least impropriety to his best friend — his adopted mother. Know then, that there is a cause why Miss Pincott should be hostile to me — a cause not uncommon152 with your sex — jealousy153.”
“Perfidious154 monster!” said the confidante.
“Ah, no,” said the artist, with a deep bass155 voice, and a tragic156 accent worthy of the Port St Martin and his favourite melodrames, “not perfidious, but fatal. Yes, I am a fatal man, Madame Fribsbi. To inspire hopeless passion is my destiny. I cannot help it that women love me. Is it my fault that that young woman deperishes and languishes157 to the view of the eye, consumed by a flame which I cannot return? Listen! There are others in this family who are similarly unhappy. The governess of the young Milor has encountered me in my walks, and looked at me in a way which can bear but one interpretation158. And Milady herself, who is of mature age, but who has oriental blood, has once or twice addressed compliments to the lonely artist which can admit of no mistake. I avoid the household, I seek solitude159, I undergo my destiny. I can marry but one, and am resolved it shall be to a lady of your nation. And, if her fortune is sufficient I think Miss would be the person who would be most suitable. I wish to ascertain160 what her means are before I lead her to Gretna Grin.”
Whether Alcides was as irresistible161 a conqueror162 as his namesake, or whether he was simply crazy, is a point which must be left to the reader’s judgment163. But the latter if he had had the benefit of much French acquaintance, has perhaps met with men amongst them who fancied themselves almost as invincible; and who, if you credit them, have made equal havoc164 in the hearts of les Anglaises.
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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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disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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nemesis
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| n.给以报应者，复仇者，难以对付的敌手 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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obstruct
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| v.阻隔，阻塞(道路、通道等)；n.阻碍物，障碍物 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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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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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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17
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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18
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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19
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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20
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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21
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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22
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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23
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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24
conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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25
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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26
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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27
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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28
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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29
bemoan
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| v.悲叹，哀泣，痛哭；惋惜，不满于 | |
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30
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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31
elegies
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| n.哀歌，挽歌( elegy的名词复数 ) | |
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32
dirges
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| n.挽歌( dirge的名词复数 )；忧伤的歌，哀歌 | |
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33
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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34
distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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35
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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36
dribbled
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| v.流口水( dribble的过去式和过去分词 )；（使液体）滴下或作细流；运球，带球 | |
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37
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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38
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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39
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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40
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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41
sedulous
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| adj.勤勉的，努力的 | |
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42
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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43
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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44
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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45
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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46
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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47
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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48
worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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49
maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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50
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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51
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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52
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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53
bead
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| n.念珠；(pl.)珠子项链；水珠 | |
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54
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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56
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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57
pensioners
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| n.领取退休、养老金或抚恤金的人( pensioner的名词复数 ) | |
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58
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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59
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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60
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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61
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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62
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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63
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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64
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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65
sarcasms
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，挖苦( sarcasm的名词复数 ) | |
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66
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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67
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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68
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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69
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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71
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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72
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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73
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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74
remodelling
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| v.改变…的结构[形状]( remodel的现在分词 ) | |
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75
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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76
colonists
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| n.殖民地开拓者，移民，殖民地居民( colonist的名词复数 ) | |
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77
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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78
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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79
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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80
rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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81
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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82
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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83
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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84
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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85
dependants
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| 受赡养者，受扶养的家属( dependant的名词复数 ) | |
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86
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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87
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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88
hemming
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| 卷边 | |
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89
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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90
rustic
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|
| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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91
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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92
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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93
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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94
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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95
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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96
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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97
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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98
ogling
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| v.（向…）抛媚眼，送秋波( ogle的现在分词 ) | |
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99
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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100
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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101
ogled
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| v.（向…）抛媚眼，送秋波( ogle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
bakers
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| n.面包师( baker的名词复数 )；面包店；面包店店主；十三 | |
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103
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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104
urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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105
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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106
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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107
jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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108
hooting
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的现在分词 )； 倒好儿； 倒彩 | |
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109
opprobrious
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| adj.可耻的，辱骂的 | |
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110
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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111
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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112
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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113
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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114
gibing
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| adj.讥刺的，嘲弄的v.嘲笑，嘲弄( gibe的现在分词 ) | |
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115
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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116
propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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117
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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118
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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119
suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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120
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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121
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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122
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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123
lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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124
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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125
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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126
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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128
diverged
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| 分开( diverge的过去式和过去分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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129
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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130
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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131
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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132
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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133
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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134
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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135
filet
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| n.肉片；鱼片 | |
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136
entrees
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| n.入场权( entree的名词复数 )；主菜 | |
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137
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
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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139
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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141
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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142
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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143
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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144
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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145
rustics
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| n.有农村或村民特色的( rustic的名词复数 )；粗野的；不雅的；用粗糙的木材或树枝制作的 | |
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146
seducing
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| 诱奸( seduce的现在分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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147
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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148
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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149
insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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150
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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151
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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152
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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153
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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154
perfidious
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| adj.不忠的，背信弃义的 | |
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155
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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156
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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157
languishes
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| 长期受苦( languish的第三人称单数 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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158
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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159
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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160
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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161
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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162
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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163
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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