At which the wizard passions fly,
By which the giant follies1 die.
COLLINS
Madame Cheron’s house stood at a little distance from the city of Tholouse, and was surrounded by extensive gardens, in which Emily, who had risen early, amused herself with wandering before breakfast. From a terrace, that extended along the highest part of them, was a wide view over Languedoc. On the distant horizon to the south, she discovered the wild summits of the Pyrenees, and her fancy immediately painted the green pastures of Gascony at their feet. Her heart pointed2 to her peaceful home — to the neighbourhood where Valancourt was — where St. Aubert had been; and her imagination, piercing the veil of distance, brought that home to her eyes in all its interesting and romantic beauty. She experienced an inexpressible pleasure in believing, that she beheld3 the country around it, though no feature could be distinguished4, except the retiring chain of the Pyrenees; and, inattentive to the scene immediately before her, and to the flight of time, she continued to lean on the window of a pavilion, that terminated the terrace, with her eyes fixed5 on Gascony, and her mind occupied with the interesting ideas which the view of it awakened6, till a servant came to tell her breakfast was ready. Her thoughts thus recalled to the surrounding objects, the straight walks, square parterres, and artificial fountains of the garden, could not fail, as she passed through it, to appear the worse, opposed to the negligent7 graces, and natural beauties of the grounds of La Vallee, upon which her recollection had been so intensely employed.
‘Whither have you been rambling9 so early?’ said Madame Cheron, as her niece entered the breakfast-room. ‘I don’t approve of these solitary10 walks;’ and Emily was surprised, when, having informed her aunt, that she had been no further than the gardens, she understood these to be included in the reproof11. ‘I desire you will not walk there again at so early an hour unattended,’ said Madame Cheron; ‘my gardens are very extensive; and a young woman, who can make assignations by moon- light, at La Vallee, is not to be trusted to her own inclinations12 elsewhere.’
Emily, extremely surprised and shocked, had scarcely power to beg an explanation of these words, and, when she did, her aunt absolutely refused to give it, though, by her severe looks, and half sentences, she appeared anxious to impress Emily with a belief, that she was well informed of some degrading circumstances of her conduct. Conscious innocence14 could not prevent a blush from stealing over Emily’s cheek; she trembled, and looked confusedly under the bold eye of Madame Cheron, who blushed also; but hers was the blush of triumph, such as sometimes stains the countenance15 of a person, congratulating himself on the penetration16 which had taught him to suspect another, and who loses both pity for the supposed criminal, and indignation of his guilt17, in the gratification of his own vanity.
Emily, not doubting that her aunt’s mistake arose from the having observed her ramble18 in the garden on the night preceding her departure from La Vallee, now mentioned the motive19 of it, at which Madame Cheron smiled contemptuously, refusing either to accept this explanation, or to give her reasons for refusing it; and, soon after, she concluded the subject by saying, ‘I never trust people’s assertions, I always judge of them by their actions; but I am willing to try what will be your behaviour in future.’
Emily, less surprised by her aunt’s moderation and mysterious silence, than by the accusation20 she had received, deeply considered the latter, and scarcely doubted, that it was Valancourt whom she had seen at night in the gardens of La Vallee, and that he had been observed there by Madame Cheron; who now passing from one painful topic only to revive another almost equally so, spoke21 of the situation of her niece’s property, in the hands of M. Motteville. While she thus talked with ostentatious pity of Emily’s misfortunes, she failed not to inculcate the duties of humility22 and gratitude23, or to render Emily fully24 sensible of every cruel mortification25, who soon perceived, that she was to be considered as a dependant26, not only by her aunt, but by her aunt’s servants.
She was now informed, that a large party were expected to dinner, on which account Madame Cheron repeated the lesson of the preceding night, concerning her conduct in company, and Emily wished, that she might have courage enough to practise it. Her aunt then proceeded to examine the simplicity27 of her dress, adding, that she expected to see her attired28 with gaiety and taste; after which she condescended29 to shew Emily the splendour of her chateau30, and to point out the particular beauty, or elegance31, which she thought distinguished each of her numerous suites32 of apartments. she then withdrew to her toilet, the throne of her homage33, and Emily to her chamber34, to unpack35 her books, and to try to charm her mind by reading, till the hour of dressing36.
When the company arrived, Emily entered the saloon with an air of timidity, which all her efforts could not overcome, and which was increased by the consciousness of Madame Cheron’s severe observation. Her mourning dress, the mild dejection of her beautiful countenance, and the retiring diffidence of her manner, rendered her a very interesting object to many of the company; among whom she distinguished Signor Montoni, and his friend Cavigni, the late visitors at M. Quesnel’s, who now seemed to converse37 with Madame Cheron with the familiarity of old acquaintance, and she to attend to them with particular pleasure.
This Signor Montoni had an air of conscious superiority, animated38 by spirit, and strengthened by talents, to which every person seemed involuntarily to yield. The quickness of his perceptions was strikingly expressed on his countenance, yet that countenance could submit implicitly39 to occasion; and, more than once in this day, the triumph of art over nature might have been discerned in it. His visage was long, and rather narrow, yet he was called handsome; and it was, perhaps, the spirit and vigour40 of his soul, sparkling through his features, that triumphed for him. Emily felt admiration41, but not the admiration that leads to esteem42; for it was mixed with a degree of fear she knew not exactly wherefore.
Cavigni was gay and insinuating43 as formerly44; and, though he paid almost incessant45 attention to Madame Cheron, he found some opportunities of conversing46 with Emily, to whom he directed, at first, the sallies of his wit, but now and then assumed an air of tenderness, which she observed, and shrunk from. Though she replied but little, the gentleness and sweetness of her manners encouraged him to talk, and she felt relieved when a young lady of the party, who spoke incessantly47, obtruded48 herself on his notice. This lady, who possessed49 all the sprightliness50 of a Frenchwoman, with all her coquetry, affected51 to understand every subject, or rather there was no affectation in the case; for, never looking beyond the limits of her own ignorance, she believed she had nothing to learn. She attracted notice from all; amused some, disgusted others for a moment, and was then forgotten.
This day passed without any material occurrence; and Emily, though amused by the characters she had seen, was glad when she could retire to the recollections, which had acquired with her the character of duties.
A fortnight passed in a round of dissipation and company, and Emily, who attended Madame Cheron in all her visits, was sometimes entertained, but oftener wearied. She was struck by the apparent talents and knowledge displayed in the various conversations she listened to, and it was long before she discovered, that the talents were for the most part those of imposture52, and the knowledge nothing more than was necessary to assist them. But what deceived her most, was the air of constant gaiety and good spirits, displayed by every visitor, and which she supposed to arise from content as constant, and from benevolence53 as ready. At length, from the over-acting54 of some, less accomplished55 than the others, she could perceive, that, though contentment and benevolence are the only sure sources of cheerfulness, the immoderate and feverish56 animation57, usually exhibited in large parties, results partly from an insensibility to the cares, which benevolence must sometimes derive58 from the sufferings of others, and partly from a desire to display the appearance of that prosperity, which they know will command submission59 and attention to themselves.
Emily’s pleasantest hours were passed in the pavilion of the terrace, to which she retired60, when she could steal from observation, with a book to overcome, or a lute13 to indulge, her melancholy61. There, as she sat with her eyes fixed on the far-distant Pyrenees, and her thoughts on Valancourt and the beloved scenes of Gascony, she would play the sweet and melancholy songs of her native province — the popular songs she had listened to from her childhood.
One evening, having excused herself from accompanying her aunt abroad, she thus withdrew to the pavilion, with books and her lute. It was the mild and beautiful evening of a sultry day, and the windows, which fronted the west, opened upon all the glory of a setting sun. Its rays illuminated62, with strong splendour, the cliffs of the Pyrenees, and touched their snowy tops with a roseate hue63, that remained, long after the sun had sunk below the horizon, and the shades of twilight64 had stolen over the landscape. Emily touched her lute with that fine melancholy expression, which came from her heart. The pensive65 hour and the scene, the evening light on the Garonne, that flowed at no great distance, and whose waves, as they passed towards La Vallee, she often viewed with a sigh,— these united circumstances disposed her mind to tenderness, and her thoughts were with Valancourt, of whom she had heard nothing since her arrival at Tholouse, and now that she was removed from him, and in uncertainty66, she perceived all the interest he held in her heart. Before she saw Valancourt she had never met a mind and taste so accordant with her own, and, though Madame Cheron told her much of the arts of dissimulation67, and that the elegance and propriety68 of thought, which she so much admired in her lover, were assumed for the purpose of pleasing her, she could scarcely doubt their truth. This possibility, however, faint as it was, was sufficient to harass69 her mind with anxiety, and she found, that few conditions are more painful than that of uncertainty, as to the merit of a beloved object; an uncertainty, which she would not have suffered, had her confidence in her own opinions been greater.
She was awakened from her musing70 by the sound of horses’ feet along a road, that wound under the windows of the pavilion, and a gentleman passed on horseback, whose resemblance to Valancourt, in air and figure, for the twilight did not permit a view of his features, immediately struck her. She retired hastily from the lattice, fearing to be seen, yet wishing to observe further, while the stranger passed on without looking up, and, when she returned to the lattice, she saw him faintly through the twilight, winding71 under the high trees, that led to Tholouse. This little incident so much disturbed her spirits, that the temple and its scenery were no longer interesting to her, and, after walking awhile on the terrace, she returned to the chateau.
Madame Cheron, whether she had seen a rival admired, had lost at play, or had witnessed an entertainment more splendid than her own, was returned from her visit with a temper more than usually discomposed; and Emily was glad, when the hour arrived, in which she could retire to the solitude72 of her own apartment.
On the following morning, she was summoned to Madame Cheron, whose countenance was inflamed73 with resentment74, and, as Emily advanced, she held out a letter to her.
‘Do you know this hand?’ said she, in a severe tone, and with a look that was intended to search her heart, while Emily examined the letter attentively75, and assured her, that she did not.
‘Do not provoke me,’ said her aunt; ‘you do know it, confess the truth immediately. I insist upon your confessing the truth instantly.’
Emily was silent, and turned to leave the room, but Madame called her back. ‘O you are guilty, then,’ said she, ‘you do know the hand.’ ‘If you was before in doubt of this, madam,’ replied Emily calmly, ‘why did you accuse me of having told a falsehood.’ Madame Cheron did not blush; but her niece did, a moment after, when she heard the name of Valancourt. It was not, however, with the consciousness of deserving reproof, for, if she ever had seen his hand-writing, the present characters did not bring it to her recollection.
‘It is useless to deny it,’ said Madame Cheron, ‘I see in your countenance, that you are no stranger to this letter; and, I dare say, you have received many such from this impertinent young man, without my knowledge, in my own house.’
Emily, shocked at the indelicacy of this accusation, still more than by the vulgarity of the former, instantly forgot the pride, that had imposed silence, and endeavoured to vindicate77 herself from the aspersion78, but Madame Cheron was not to be convinced.
‘I cannot suppose,’ she resumed, ‘that this young man would have taken the liberty of writing to me, if you had not encouraged him to do so, and I must now’—‘You will allow me to remind you, madam,’ said Emily timidly, ‘of some particulars of a conversation we had at La Vallee. I then told you truly, that I had only not forbade Monsieur Valancourt from addressing my family.’
‘I will not be interrupted,’ said Madame Cheron, interrupting her niece, ‘I was going to say — I— I-have forgot what I was going to say. But how happened it that you did not forbid him?’ Emily was silent. ‘How happened it that you encouraged him to trouble me with this letter?— A young man that nobody knows;— an utter stranger in the place,— a young adventurer, no doubt, who is looking out for a good fortune. However, on that point he has mistaken his aim.’
‘His family was known to my father,’ said Emily modestly, and without appearing to be sensible of the last sentence.
‘O! that is no recommendation at all,’ replied her aunt, with her usual readiness upon this topic; ‘he took such strange fancies to people! He was always judging persons by their countenances79, and was continually deceived.’ ‘Yet it was but now, madam, that you judged me guilty by my countenance,’ said Emily, with a design of reproving Madame Cheron, to which she was induced by this disrespectful mention of her father.
‘I called you here,’ resumed her aunt, colouring, ‘to tell you, that I will not be disturbed in my own house by any letters, or visits from young men, who may take a fancy to flatter you. This M. de Valantine — I think you call him, has the impertinence to beg I will permit him to pay his respects to me! I shall send him a proper answer. And for you, Emily, I repeat it once for all — if you are not contented80 to conform to my directions, and to my way of live, I shall give up the task of overlooking your conduct — I shall no longer trouble myself with your education, but shall send you to board in a convent.’
‘Dear madam,’ said Emily, bursting into tears, and overcome by the rude suspicions her aunt had expressed, ‘how have I deserved these reproofs81?’ She could say no more; and so very fearful was she of acting with any degree of impropriety in the affair itself, that, at the present moment, Madame Cheron might perhaps have prevailed with her to bind82 herself by a promise to renounce83 Valancourt for ever. Her mind, weakened by her terrors, would no longer suffer her to view him as she had formerly done; she feared the error of her own judgment84, not that of Madame Cheron, and feared also, that, in her former conversation with him, at La Vallee, she had not conducted herself with sufficient reserve. She knew, that she did not deserve the coarse suspicions, which her aunt had thrown out, but a thousand scruples85 rose to torment86 her, such as would never have disturbed the peace of Madame Cheron. Thus rendered anxious to avoid every opportunity of erring87, and willing to submit to any restrictions88, that her aunt should think proper, she expressed an obedience89, to which Madame Cheron did not give much confidence, and which she seemed to consider as the consequence of either fear, or artifice90.
‘Well, then,’ said she, ‘promise me that you will neither see this young man, nor write to him without my consent.’ ‘Dear madam,’ replied Emily, ‘can you suppose I would do either, unknown to you!’ ‘I don’t know what to suppose; there is no knowing how young women will act. It is difficult to place any confidence in them, for they have seldom sense enough to wish for the respect of the world.’
‘Alas, madam!’ said Emily, ‘I am anxious for my own respect; my father taught me the value of that; he said if I deserved my own esteem, that the world would follow of course.’
‘My brother was a good kind of a man,’ replied Madame Cheron, ‘but he did not know the world. I am sure I have always felt a proper respect for myself, yet —’ she stopped, but she might have added, that the world had not always shewn respect to her, and this without impeaching91 its judgment.
‘Well!’ resumed Madame Cheron, ‘you have not give me the promise, though, that I demand.’ Emily readily gave it, and, being then suffered to withdraw, she walked in the garden; tried to compose her spirits, and, at length, arrived at her favourite pavilion at the end of the terrace, where, seating herself at one of the embowered windows, that opened upon a balcony, the stillness and seclusion92 of the scene allowed her to recollect8 her thoughts, and to arrange them so as to form a clearer judgment of her former conduct. She endeavoured to review with exactness all the particulars of her conversation with Valancourt at La Vallee, had the satisfaction to observe nothing, that could alarm her delicate pride, and thus to be confirmed in the self-esteem, which was so necessary to her peace. Her mind then became tranquil93, and she saw Valancourt amiable94 and intelligent, as he had formerly appeared, and Madame Cheron neither the one, or the other. The remembrance of her lover, however, brought with it many very painful emotions, for it by no means reconciled her to the thought of resigning him; and, Madame Cheron having already shewn how highly she disapproved96 of the attachment97, she foresaw much suffering from the opposition98 of interests; yet with all this was mingled99 a degree of delight, which, in spite of reason, partook of hope. She determined100, however, that no consideration should induce her to permit a clandestine101 correspondence, and to observe in her conversation with Valancourt, should they ever meet again, the same nicety of reserve, which had hitherto marked her conduct. As she repeated the words —‘should we ever meet again!’ she shrunk as if this was a circumstance, which had never before occurred to her, and tears came to her eyes, which she hastily dried, for she heard footsteps approaching, and then the door of the pavilion open, and, on turning, she saw — Valancourt. An emotion of mingled pleasure, surprise and apprehension102 pressed so suddenly upon her heart as almost to overcome her spirits; the colour left her cheeks, then returned brighter than before, and she was for a moment unable to speak, or to rise from her chair. His countenance was the mirror, in which she saw her own emotions reflected, and it roused her to self-command. The joy, which had animated his features, when he entered the pavilion, was suddenly repressed, as, approaching, he perceived her agitation103, and, in a tremulous voice, enquired104 after her health. Recovered from her first surprise, she answered him with a tempered smile; but a variety of opposite emotions still assailed105 her heart, and struggled to subdue106 the mild dignity of her manner. It was difficult to tell which predominated — the joy of seeing Valancourt, or the terror of her aunt’s displeasure, when she should hear of this meeting. After some short and embarrassed conversation, she led him into the gardens, and enquired if he had seen Madame Cheron. ‘No,’ said he, ‘I have not yet seen her, for they told me she was engaged, and as soon as I learned that you were in the gardens, I came hither.’ He paused a moment, in great agitation, and then added, ‘May I venture to tell you the purport107 of my visit, without incurring108 your displeasure, and to hope, that you will not accuse me of precipitation in now availing myself of the permission you once gave me of addressing your family?’ Emily, who knew not what to reply, was spared from further perplexity, and was sensible only of fear, when on raising her eyes, she saw Madame Cheron turn into the avenue. As the consciousness of innocence returned, this fear was so far dissipated as to permit her to appear tranquil, and, instead of avoiding her aunt, she advanced with Valancourt to meet her. The look of haughty109 and impatient displeasure, with which Madame Cheron regarded them, made Emily shrink, who understood from a single glance, that this meeting was believed to have been more than accidental: having mentioned Valancourt’s name, she became again too much agitated110 to remain with them, and returned into the chateau; where she awaited long, in a state of trembling anxiety, the conclusion of the conference. She knew not how to account for Valancourt’s visit to her aunt, before he had received the permission he solicited111, since she was ignorant of a circumstance, which would have rendered the request useless, even if Madame Cheron had been inclined to grant it. Valancourt, in the agitation of his spirits, had forgotten to date his letter, so that it was impossible for Madame Cheron to return an answer; and, when he recollected112 this circumstance, he was, perhaps, not so sorry for the omission113 as glad of the excuse it allowed him for waiting on her before she could send a refusal.
Madame Cheron had a long conversation with Valancourt, and, when she returned to the chateau, her countenance expressed ill-humour, but not the degree of severity, which Emily had apprehended114. ‘I have dismissed this young man, at last,’ said she, ‘and I hope my house will never again be disturbed with similar visits. He assures me, that your interview was not preconcerted.’
‘Dear madam!’ said Emily in extreme emotion, ‘you surely did not ask him the question!’ ‘Most certainly I did; you could not suppose I should be so imprudent as to neglect it.’
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Emily, ‘what an opinion must he form of me, since you, Madam, could express a suspicion of such ill conduct!’
‘It is of very little consequence what opinion he may form of you,’ replied her aunt, ‘for I have put an end to the affair; but I believe he will not form a worse opinion of me for my prudent115 conduct. I let him see, that I was not to be trifled with, and that I had more delicacy76, than to permit any clandestine correspondence to be carried on in my house.’
Emily had frequently heard Madame Cheron use the word delicacy, but she was now more than usually perplexed116 to understand how she meant to apply it in this instance, in which her whole conduct appeared to merit the very reverse of the term.
‘It was very inconsiderate of my brother,’ resumed Madame Cheron, ‘to leave the trouble of overlooking your conduct to me; I wish you was well settled in life. But if I find, that I am to be further troubled with such visitors as this M. Valancourt, I shall place you in a convent at once;— so remember the alternative. This young man has the impertinence to own to me,— he owns it! that his fortune is very small, and that he is chiefly dependent on an elder brother and on the profession he has chosen! He should have concealed117 these circumstances, at least, if he expected to succeed with me. Had he the presumption118 to suppose I would marry my niece to a person such as he describes himself!’
Emily dried her tears when she heard of the candid119 confession120 of Valancourt; and, though the circumstances it discovered were afflicting121 to her hopes, his artless conduct gave her a degree of pleasure, that overcame every other emotion. But she was compelled, even thus early in life, to observe, that good sense and noble integrity are not always sufficient to cope with folly122 and narrow cunning; and her heart was pure enough to allow her, even at this trying moment, to look with more pride on the defeat of the former, than with mortification on the conquests of the latter.
Madame Cheron pursued her triumph. ‘He has also thought proper to tell me, that he will receive his dismission from no person but yourself; this favour, however, I have absolutely refused him. He shall learn, that it is quite sufficient, that I disapprove95 him. And I take this opportunity of repeating,— that if you concert any means of interview unknown to me, you shall leave my house immediately.’
‘How little do you know me, madam, that you should think such an injunction necessary!’ said Emily, trying to suppress her emotion, ‘how little of the dear parents, who educated me!’
Madame Cheron now went to dress for an engagement, which she had made for the evening; and Emily, who would gladly have been excused from attending her aunt, did not ask to remain at home lest her request should be attributed to an improper123 motive. When she retired to her own room, the little fortitude124, which had supported her in the presence of her relation, forsook125 her; she remembered only that Valancourt, whose character appeared more amiable from every circumstance, that unfolded it, was banished126 from her presence, perhaps, for ever, and she passed the time in weeping, which, according to her aunt’s direction, she ought to have employed in dressing. This important duty was, however, quickly dispatched; though, when she joined Madame Cheron at table, her eyes betrayed, that she had been in tears, and drew upon her a severe reproof.
Her efforts to appear cheerful did not entirely127 fail when she joined the company at the house of Madame Clairval, an elderly widow lady, who had lately come to reside at Tholouse, on an estate of her late husband. She had lived many years at Paris in a splendid style; had naturally a gay temper, and, since her residence at Tholouse, had given some of the most magnificent entertainments, that had been seen in that neighbourhood.
These excited not only the envy, but the trifling128 ambition of Madame Cheron, who, since she could not rival the splendour of her festivities, was desirous of being ranked in the number of her most intimate friends. For this purpose she paid her the most obsequious129 attention, and made a point of being disengaged, whenever she received an invitation from Madame Clairval, of whom she talked, wherever she went, and derived130 much self-consequence from impressing a belief on her general acquaintance, that they were on the most familiar footing.
The entertainments of this evening consisted of a ball and supper; it was a fancy ball, and the company danced in groups in the gardens, which were very extensive. The high and luxuriant trees, under which the groups assembled, were illuminated with a profusion131 of lamps, disposed with taste and fancy. The gay and various dresses of the company, some of whom were seated on the turf, conversing at their ease, observing the cotillons, taking refreshments132, and sometimes touching133 sportively a guitar; the gallant134 manners of the gentlemen, the exquisitely135 capricious air of the ladies; the light fantastic steps of their dances; the musicians, with the lute, the hautboy, and the tabor, seated at the foot of an elm, and the sylvan136 scenery of woods around were circumstances, that unitedly formed a characteristic and striking picture of French festivity. Emily surveyed the gaiety of the scene with a melancholy kind of pleasure, and her emotion may be imagined when, as she stood with her aunt, looking at one of the groups, she perceived Valancourt; saw him dancing with a young and beautiful lady, saw him conversing with her with a mixture of attention and familiarity, such as she had seldom observed in his manner. She turned hastily from the scene, and attempted to draw away Madame Cheron, who was conversing with Signor Cavigni, and neither perceived Valancourt, or was willing to be interrupted. A faintness suddenly came over Emily, and, unable to support herself, she sat down on a turf bank beneath the trees, where several other persons were seated. One of these, observing the extreme paleness of her countenance, enquired if she was ill, and begged she would allow him to fetch her a glass of water, for which politeness she thanked him, but did not accept it. Her apprehension lest Valancourt should observe her emotion made her anxious to overcome it, and she succeeded so far as to re-compose her countenance. Madame Cheron was still conversing with Cavigni; and the Count Bauvillers, who had addressed Emily, made some observations upon the scene, to which she answered almost unconsciously, for her mind was still occupied with the idea of Valancourt, to whom it was with extreme uneasiness that she remained so near. Some remarks, however, which the Count made upon the dance obliged her to turn her eyes towards it, and, at that moment, Valancourt’s met hers. Her colour faded again, she felt, that she was relapsing into faintness, and instantly averted137 her looks, but not before she had observed the altered countenance of Valancourt, on perceiving her. She would have left the spot immediately, had she not been conscious, that this conduct would have shewn him more obviously the interest he held in her heart; and, having tried to attend to the Count’s conversation, and to join in it, she, at length, recovered her spirits. But, when he made some observation on Valancourt’s partner, the fear of shewing that she was interested in the remark, would have betrayed it to him, had not the Count, while he spoke, looked towards the person of whom he was speaking. ‘The lady,’ said he, ‘dancing with that young Chevalier, who appears to be accomplished in every thing, but in dancing, is ranked among the beauties of Tholouse. She is handsome, and her fortune will be very large. I hope she will make a better choice in a partner for life than she has done in a partner for the dance, for I observe he has just put the set into great confusion; he does nothing but commit blunders. I am surprised, that, with his air and figure, he has not taken more care to accomplish himself in dancing.’
Emily, whose heart trembled at every word, that was now uttered, endeavoured to turn the conversation from Valancourt, by enquiring138 the name of the lady, with whom he danced; but, before the Count could reply, the dance concluded, and Emily, perceiving that Valancourt was coming towards her, rose and joined Madame Cheron.
‘Here is the Chevalier Valancourt, madam,’ said she in a whisper, ‘pray let us go.’ Her aunt immediately moved on, but not before Valancourt had reached them, who bowed lowly to Madame Cheron, and with an earnest and dejected look to Emily, with whom, notwithstanding all her effort, an air of more than common reserve prevailed. The presence of Madame Cheron prevented Valancourt from remaining, and he passed on with a countenance, whose melancholy reproached her for having increased it. Emily was called from the musing fit, into which she had fallen, by the Count Bauvillers, who was known to her aunt.
‘I have your pardon to beg, ma’amselle,’ said he, ‘for a rudeness, which you will readily believe was quite unintentional. I did not know, that the Chevalier was your acquaintance, when I so freely criticised his dancing.’ Emily blushed and smiled, and Madame Cheron spared her the difficulty of replying. ‘If you mean the person, who has just passed us,’ said she, ‘I can assure you he is no acquaintance of either mine, or ma’amselle St. Aubert’s: I know nothing of him.’
‘O! that is the Chevalier Valancourt,’ said Cavigni carelessly, and looking back. ‘You know him then?’ said Madame Cheron. ‘I am not acquainted with him,’ replied Cavigni. ‘You don’t know, then, the reason I have to call him impertinent;— he has had the presumption to admire my niece!’
‘If every man deserves the title of impertinent, who admires ma’amselle St. Aubert,’ replied Cavigni, ‘I fear there are a great many impertinents, and I am willing to acknowledge myself one of the number.’
‘O Signor!’ said Madame Cheron, with an affected smile, ‘I perceive you have learnt the art of complimenting, since you came into France. But it is cruel to compliment children, since they mistake flattery for truth.’
Cavigni turned away his face for a moment, and then said with a studied air, ‘Whom then are we to compliment, madam? for it would be absurd to compliment a woman of refined understanding; SHE is above all praise.’ As he finished the sentence he gave Emily a sly look, and the smile, that had lurked139 in his eye, stole forth140. She perfectly141 understood it, and blushed for Madame Cheron, who replied, ‘You are perfectly right, signor, no woman of understanding can endure compliment.’
‘I have heard Signor Montoni say,’ rejoined Cavigni, ‘that he never knew but one woman who deserved it.’
‘Well!’ exclaimed Madame Cheron, with a short laugh, and a smile of unutterable complacency, ‘and who could she be?’
‘O!’ replied Cavigni, ‘it is impossible to mistake her, for certainly there is not more than one woman in the world, who has both the merit to deserve compliment and the wit to refuse it. Most women reverse the case entirely.’ He looked again at Emily, who blushed deeper than before for her aunt, and turned from him with displeasure.
‘Well, signor!’ said Madame Cheron, ‘I protest you are a Frenchman; I never heard a foreigner say any thing half so gallant as that!’
‘True, madam,’ said the Count, who had been some time silent, and with a low bow, ‘but the gallantry of the compliment had been utterly142 lost, but for the ingenuity143 that discovered the application.’
Madame Cheron did not perceive the meaning of this too satirical sentence, and she, therefore, escaped the pain, which Emily felt on her account. ‘O! here comes Signor Montoni himself,’ said her aunt, ‘I protest I will tell him all the fine things you have been saying to me.’ The Signor, however, passed at this moment into another walk. ‘Pray, who is it, that has so much engaged your friend this evening?’ asked Madame Cheron, with an air of chagrin144, ‘I have not seen him once.’
‘He had a very particular engagement with the Marquis La Riviere,’ replied Cavigni, ‘which has detained him, I perceive, till this moment, or he would have done himself the honour of paying his respects to you, madam, sooner, as he commissioned me to say. But, I know not how it is — your conversation is so fascinating — that it can charm even memory, I think, or I should certainly have delivered my friend’s apology before.’
‘The apology, sir, would have been more satisfactory from himself,’ said Madame Cheron, whose vanity was more mortified145 by Montoni’s neglect, than flattered by Cavigni’s compliment. Her manner, at this moment, and Cavigni’s late conversation, now awakened a suspicion in Emily’s mind, which, notwithstanding that some recollections served to confirm it, appeared preposterous146. She thought she perceived, that Montoni was paying serious addresses to her aunt, and that she not only accepted them, but was jealously watchful147 of any appearance of neglect on his part.— That Madame Cheron at her years should elect a second husband was ridiculous, though her vanity made it not impossible; but that Montoni, with his discernment, his figure, and pretensions148, should make a choice of Madame Cheron — appeared most wonderful. Her thoughts, however, did not dwell long on the subject; nearer interests pressed upon them; Valancourt, rejected of her aunt, and Valancourt dancing with a gay and beautiful partner, alternately tormented149 her mind. As she passed along the gardens she looked timidly forward, half fearing and half hoping that he might appear in the crowd; and the disappointment she felt on not seeing him, told her, that she had hoped more than she had feared.
Montoni soon after joined the party. He muttered over some short speech about regret for having been so long detained elsewhere, when he knew he should have the pleasure of seeing Madame Cheron here; and she, receiving the apology with the air of a pettish150 girl, addressed herself entirely to Cavigni, who looked archly at Montoni, as if he would have said, ‘I will not triumph over you too much; I will have the goodness to bear my honours meekly151; but look sharp, Signor, or I shall certainly run away with your prize.’
The supper was served in different pavilions in the gardens, as well as in one large saloon of the chateau, and with more of taste, than either of splendour, or even of plenty. Madame Cheron and her party supped with Madame Clairval in the saloon, and Emily, with difficulty, disguised her emotion, when she saw Valancourt placed at the same table with herself. There, Madame Cheron having surveyed him with high displeasure, said to some person who sat next to her, ‘Pray, who IS that young man?’ ‘It is the Chevalier Valancourt,’ was the answer. ‘Yes, I am not ignorant of his name, but who is this Chevalier Valancourt that thus intrudes152 himself at this table?’ The attention of the person, who whom she spoke, was called off before she received a second reply. The table, at which they sat, was very long, and, Valancourt being seated, with his partner, near the bottom, and Emily near the top, the distance between them may account for his not immediately perceiving her. She avoided looking to that end of the table, but whenever her eyes happened to glance towards it, she observed him conversing with his beautiful companion, and the observation did not contribute to restore her peace, any more than the accounts she heard of the fortune and accomplishments153 of this same lady.
Madame Cheron, to whom these remarks were sometimes addressed, because they supported topics for trivial conversation, seemed indefatigable154 in her attempts to depreciate155 Valancourt, towards whom she felt all the petty resentment of a narrow pride. ‘I admire the lady,’ said she, ‘but I must condemn156 her choice of a partner.’ ‘Oh, the Chevalier Valancourt is one of the most accomplished young men we have,’ replied the lady, to whom this remark was addressed: ‘it is whispered, that Mademoiselle D’Emery, and her large fortune, are to be his.’
‘Impossible!’ exclaimed Madame Cheron, reddening with vexation, ‘it is impossible that she can be so destitute157 of taste; he has so little the air of a person of condition, that, if I did not see him at the table of Madame Clairval, I should never have suspected him to be one. I have besides particular reasons for believing the report to be erroneous.’
‘I cannot doubt the truth of it,’ replied the lady gravely, disgusted by the abrupt158 contradiction she had received, concerning her opinion of Valancourt’s merit. ‘You will, perhaps, doubt it,’ said Madame Cheron, ‘when I assure you, that it was only this morning that I rejected his suit.’ This was said without any intention of imposing159 the meaning it conveyed, but simply from a habit of considering herself to be the most important person in every affair that concerned her niece, and because literally160 she had rejected Valancourt. ‘Your reasons are indeed such as cannot be doubted,’ replied the lady, with an ironical161 smile. ‘Any more than the discernment of the Chevalier Valancourt,’ added Cavigni, who stood by the chair of Madame Cheron, and had heard her arrogate162 to herself, as he thought, a distinction which had been paid to her niece. ‘His discernment MAY be justly questioned, Signor,’ said Madame Cheron, who was not flattered by what she understood to be an encomium163 on Emily.
‘Alas!’ exclaimed Cavigni, surveying Madame Cheron with affected ecstasy164, ‘how vain is that assertion, while that face — that shape — that air — combine to refute it! Unhappy Valancourt! his discernment has been his destruction.’
Emily looked surprised and embarrassed; the lady, who had lately spoke, astonished, and Madame Cheron, who, though she did not perfectly understand this speech, was very ready to believe herself complimented by it, said smilingly, ‘O Signor! you are very gallant; but those, who hear you vindicate the Chevalier’s discernment, will suppose that I am the object of it.’
‘They cannot doubt it,’ replied Cavigni, bowing low.
‘And would not that be very mortifying165, Signor?’
‘Unquestionably it would,’ said Cavigni.
‘I cannot endure the thought,’ said Madame Cheron.
‘It is not to be endured,’ replied Cavigni.
‘What can be done to prevent so humiliating a mistake?’ rejoined Madame Cheron.
‘Alas! I cannot assist you,’ replied Cavigni, with a deliberating air. ‘Your only chance of refuting the calumny166, and of making people understand what you wish them to believe, is to persist in your first assertion; for, when they are told of the Chevalier’s want of discernment, it is possible they may suppose he never presumed to distress167 you with his admiration.— But then again — that diffidence, which renders you so insensible to your own perfections — they will consider this, and Valancourt’s taste will not be doubted, though you arraign168 it. In short, they will, in spite of your endeavours, continue to believe, what might very naturally have occurred to them without any hint of mine — that the Chevalier has taste enough to admire a beautiful woman.’
‘All this is very distressing169!’ said Madame Cheron, with a profound sigh.
‘May I be allowed to ask what is so distressing?’ said Madame Clairval, who was struck with the rueful countenance and doleful accent, with which this was delivered.
‘It is a delicate subject,’ replied Madame Cheron, ‘a very mortifying one to me.’ ‘I am concerned to hear it,’ said Madame Clairval, ‘I hope nothing has occurred, this evening, particularly to distress you?’ ‘Alas, yes! within this half hour; and I know not where the report may end;— my pride was never so shocked before, but I assure you the report is totally void of foundation.’ ‘Good God!’ exclaimed Madame Clairval,’ what can be done? Can you point out any way, by which I can assist, or console you?’
‘The only way, by which you can do either,’ replied Madame Cheron, ‘is to contradict the report wherever you go.’
‘Well! but pray inform me what I am to contradict.’
‘It is so very humiliating, that I know not how to mention it,’ continued Madame Cheron, ‘but you shall judge. Do you observe that young man seated near the bottom of the table, who is conversing with Mademoiselle D’Emery?’ ‘Yes, I perceive whom you mean.’ ‘You observe how little he has the air of a person of condition; I was saying just now, that I should not have thought him a gentleman, if I had not seen him at this table.’ ‘Well! but the report,’ said Madame Clairval, ‘let me understand the subject of your distress.’ ‘Ah! the subject of my distress,’ replied Madame Cheron; ‘this person, whom nobody knows —(I beg pardon, madam, I did not consider what I said)— this impertinent young man, having had the presumption to address my niece, has, I fear, given rise to a report, that he had declared himself my admirer. Now only consider how very mortifying such a report must be! You, I know, will feel for my situation. A woman of my condition!— think how degrading even the rumour170 of such an alliance must be.’
‘Degrading indeed, my poor friend!’ said Madame Clairval. ‘You may rely upon it I will contradict the report wherever I go;’ as she said which, she turned her attention upon another part of the company; and Cavigni, who had hitherto appeared a grave spectator of the scene, now fearing he should be unable to smother171 the laugh, that convulsed him, walked abruptly172 away.
‘I perceive you do not know,’ said the lady who sat near Madame Cheron, ‘that the gentleman you have been speaking of is Madame Clairval’s nephew!’ ‘Impossible!’ exclaimed Madame Cheron, who now began to perceive, that she had been totally mistaken in her judgment of Valancourt, and to praise him aloud with as much servility, as she had before censured173 him with frivolous174 malignity175.
Emily, who, during the greater part of this conversation, had been so absorbed in thought as to be spared the pain of hearing it, was now extremely surprised by her aunt’s praise of Valancourt, with whose relationship to Madame Clairval she was unacquainted; but she was not sorry when Madame Cheron, who, though she now tried to appear unconcerned, was really much embarrassed, prepared to withdraw immediately after supper. Montoni then came to hand Madame Cheron to her carriage, and Cavigni, with an arch solemnity of countenance, followed with Emily, who, as she wished them good night, and drew up the glass, saw Valancourt among the crowd at the gates. Before the carriage drove off, he disappeared. Madame Cheron forbore to mention him to Emily, and, as soon as they reached the chateau, they separated for the night.
On the following morning, as Emily sat at breakfast with her aunt, a letter was brought to her, of which she knew the handwriting upon the cover; and, as she received it with a trembling hand, Madame Cheron hastily enquired from whom it came. Emily, with her leave, broke the seal, and, observing the signature of Valancourt, gave it unread to her aunt, who received it with impatience176; and, as she looked it over, Emily endeavoured to read on her countenance its contents. Having returned the letter to her niece, whose eyes asked if she might examine it, ‘Yes, read it, child,’ said Madame Cheron, in a manner less severe than she had expected, and Emily had, perhaps, never before so willingly obeyed her aunt. In this letter Valancourt said little of the interview of the preceding day, but concluded with declaring, that he would accept his dismission from Emily only, and with entreating177, that she would allow him to wait upon her, on the approaching evening. When she read this, she was astonished at the moderation of Madame Cheron, and looked at her with timid expectation, as she said sorrowfully —‘What am I to say, madam?’
‘Why — we must see the young man, I believe,’ replied her aunt, ‘and hear what he has further to say for himself. You may tell him he may come.’ Emily dared scarcely credit what she heard. ‘Yet, stay,’ added Madame Cheron, ‘I will tell him so myself.’ She called for pen and ink; Emily still not daring to trust the emotions she felt, and almost sinking beneath them. Her surprise would have been less had she overheard, on the preceding evening, what Madame Cheron had not forgotten — that Valancourt was the nephew of Madame Clairval.
What were the particulars of her aunt’s note Emily did not learn, but the result was a visit from Valancourt in the evening, whom Madame Cheron received alone, and they had a long conversation before Emily was called down. When she entered the room, her aunt was conversing with complacency, and she saw the eyes of Valancourt, as he impatiently rose, animated with hope.
‘We have been talking over this affair,’ said Madame Cheron, ‘the chevalier has been telling me, that the late Monsieur Clairval was the brother of the Countess de Duvarney, his mother. I only wish he had mentioned his relationship to Madame Clairval before; I certainly should have considered that circumstance as a sufficient introduction to my house.’ Valancourt bowed, and was going to address Emily, but her aunt prevented him. ‘I have, therefore, consented that you shall receive his visits; and, though I will not bind myself by any promise, or say, that I shall consider him as my nephew, yet I shall permit the intercourse178, and shall look forward to any further connection as an event, which may possibly take place in a course of years, provided the chevalier rises in his profession, or any circumstance occurs, which may make it prudent for him to take a wife. But Mons. Valancourt will observe, and you too, Emily, that, till that happens, I positively179 forbid any thoughts of marrying.’
Emily’s countenance, during this coarse speech, varied180 every instant, and, towards its conclusion, her distress had so much increased, that she was on the point of leaving the room. Valancourt, meanwhile, scarcely less embarrassed, did not dare to look at her, for whom he was thus distressed181; but, when Madame Cheron was silent, he said, ‘Flattering, madam, as your approbation182 is to me — highly as I am honoured by it — I have yet so much to fear, that I scarcely dare to hope.’ ‘Pray, sir, explain yourself,’ said Madame Cheron; an unexpected requisition, which embarrassed Valancourt again, and almost overcame him with confusion, at circumstances, on which, had he been only a spectator of the scene, he would have smiled.
‘Till I receive Mademoiselle St. Aubert’s permission to accept your indulgence,’ said he, falteringly183 —‘till she allows me to hope —’
‘O! is that all?’ interrupted Madame Cheron. ‘Well, I will take upon me to answer for her. But at the same time, sir, give me leave to observe to you, that I am her guardian184, and that I expect, in every instance, that my will is hers.’
As she said this, she rose and quitted the room, leaving Emily and Valancourt in a state of mutual185 embarrassment186; and, when Valancourt’s hopes enabled him to overcome his fears, and to address her with the zeal187 and sincerity188 so natural to him, it was a considerable time before she was sufficiently189 recovered to hear with distinctness his solicitations and inquiries190.
The conduct of Madame Cheron in this affair had been entirely governed by selfish vanity. Valancourt, in his first interview, had with great candour laid open to her the true state of his present circumstances, and his future expectancies191, and she, with more prudence192 than humanity, had absolutely and abruptly rejected his suit. She wished her niece to marry ambitiously, not because she desired to see her in possession of the happiness, which rank and wealth are usually believed to bestow193, but because she desired to partake the importance, which such an alliance would give. When, therefore, she discovered that Valancourt was the nephew of a person of so much consequence as Madame Clairval, she became anxious for the connection, since the prospect194 it afforded of future fortune and distinction for Emily, promised the exaltation she coveted195 for herself. Her calculations concerning fortune in this alliance were guided rather by her wishes, than by any hint of Valancourt, or strong appearance of probability; and, when she rested her expectation on the wealth of Madame Clairval, she seemed totally to have forgotten, that the latter had a daughter. Valancourt, however, had not forgotten this circumstance, and the consideration of it had made him so modest in his expectations from Madame Clairval, that he had not even named the relationship in his first conversation with Madame Cheron. But, whatever might be the future fortune of Emily, the present distinction, which the connection would afford for herself, was certain, since the splendour of Madame Clairval’s establishment was such as to excite the general envy and partial imitation of the neighbourhood. Thus had she consented to involve her niece in an engagement, to which she saw only a distant and uncertain conclusion, with as little consideration of her happiness, as when she had so precipitately196 forbade it: for though she herself possessed the means of rendering197 this union not only certain, but prudent, yet to do so was no part of her present intention.
From this period Valancourt made frequent visits to Madame Cheron, and Emily passed in his society the happiest hours she had known since the death of her father. They were both too much engaged by the present moments to give serious consideration to the future. They loved and were beloved, and saw not, that the very attachment, which formed the delight of their present days, might possibly occasion the sufferings of years. Meanwhile, Madame Cheron’s intercourse with Madame Clairval became more frequent than before, and her vanity was already gratified by the opportunity of proclaiming, wherever she went, the attachment that subsisted198 between their nephew and niece.
Montoni was now also become a daily guest at the chateau, and Emily was compelled to observe, that he really was a suitor, and a favoured suitor, to her aunt.
Thus passed the winter months, not only in peace, but in happiness, to Valancourt and Emily; the station of his regiment199 being so near Tholouse, as to allow this frequent intercourse. The pavilion on the terrace was the favourite scene of their interviews, and there Emily, with Madame Cheron, would work, while Valancourt read aloud works of genius and taste, listened to her enthusiasm, expressed his own, and caught new opportunities of observing, that their minds were formed to constitute the happiness of each other, the same taste, the same noble and benevolent200 sentiments animating201 each.
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1
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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2
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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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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penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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dependant
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| n.依靠的，依赖的，依赖他人生活者 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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suites
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| n.套( suite的名词复数 )；一套房间；一套家具；一套公寓 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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unpack
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| vt.打开包裹（或行李），卸货 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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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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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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42
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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43
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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44
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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48
obtruded
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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sprightliness
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| n.愉快，快活 | |
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51
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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52
imposture
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| n.冒名顶替，欺骗 | |
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53
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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54
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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57
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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58
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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59
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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60
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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61
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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62
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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63
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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64
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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65
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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66
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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67
dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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68
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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69
harass
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| vt.使烦恼，折磨，骚扰 | |
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70
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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71
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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72
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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73
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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75
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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76
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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77
vindicate
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| v.为…辩护或辩解，辩明；证明…正确 | |
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78
aspersion
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| n.诽谤，中伤 | |
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79
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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80
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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81
reproofs
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| n.责备，责难，指责( reproof的名词复数 ) | |
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82
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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83
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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84
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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85
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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86
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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87
erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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88
restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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89
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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90
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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91
impeaching
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| v.控告（某人）犯罪( impeach的现在分词 )；弹劾；对（某事物）怀疑；提出异议 | |
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92
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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93
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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94
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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95
disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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96
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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98
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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99
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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100
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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101
clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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102
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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103
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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104
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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105
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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106
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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107
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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108
incurring
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| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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109
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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110
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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111
solicited
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| v.恳求( solicit的过去式和过去分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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112
recollected
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|
| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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114
apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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115
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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116
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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117
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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118
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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119
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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120
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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121
afflicting
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| 痛苦的 | |
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122
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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123
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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124
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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125
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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126
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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128
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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129
obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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130
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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131
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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132
refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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133
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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134
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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135
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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136
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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137
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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138
enquiring
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| a.爱打听的，显得好奇的 | |
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139
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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140
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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141
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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142
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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143
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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144
chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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145
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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146
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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147
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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148
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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149
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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150
pettish
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| adj.易怒的，使性子的 | |
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151
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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152
intrudes
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的第三人称单数 )；把…强加于 | |
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153
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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154
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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155
depreciate
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| v.降价，贬值，折旧 | |
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156
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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157
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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158
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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159
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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160
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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161
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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162
arrogate
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| v.冒称具有...权利，霸占 | |
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163
encomium
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| n.赞颂；颂词 | |
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164
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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165
mortifying
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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166
calumny
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| n.诽谤，污蔑，中伤 | |
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167
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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168
arraign
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| v.提讯；控告 | |
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169
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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170
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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171
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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172
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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173
censured
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的过去式 ) | |
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174
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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175
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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176
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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177
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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178
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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179
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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180
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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181
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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182
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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183
falteringly
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| 口吃地，支吾地 | |
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184
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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185
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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186
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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187
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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188
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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189
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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190
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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expectancies
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| 期待，期望( expectancy的名词复数 ) | |
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192
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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193
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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195
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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196
precipitately
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| adv.猛进地 | |
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197
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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198
subsisted
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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199
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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200
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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201
animating
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| v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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