Lord Palmerston’s laugh — a queer metallic1 “Ha! ha! ha!” with reverberations in it from the days of Pitt and the Congress of Vienna — was heard no more in Piccadilly; Lord John Russell dwindled2 into senility; Lord Derby tottered3 from the stage. A new scene opened; and new protagonists4 — Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Disraeli — struggled together in the limelight. Victoria, from her post of vantage, watched these developments with that passionate5 and personal interest which she invariably imported into politics. Her prepossessions were of an unexpected kind. Mr. Gladstone had been the disciple6 of her revered7 Peel, and had won the approval of Albert; Mr. Disraeli had hounded Sir Robert to his fall with hideous8 virulence9, and the Prince had pronounced that he “had not one single element of a gentleman in his composition.” Yet she regarded Mr. Gladstone with a distrust and dislike which steadily10 deepened, while upon his rival she lavished11 an abundance of confidence, esteem12, and affection such as Lord Melbourne himself had hardly known.
Her attitude towards the Tory Minister had suddenly changed when she found that he alone among public men had divined her feelings at Albert’s death. Of the others she might have said “they pity me and not my grief;” but Mr. Disraeli had understood; and all his condolences had taken the form of reverential eulogies13 of the departed. The Queen declared that he was “the only person who appreciated the Prince.” She began to show him special favour; gave him and his wife two of the coveted14 seats in St. George’s Chapel15 at the Prince of Wales’s wedding, and invited him to stay a night at Windsor. When the grant for the Albert Memorial came before the House of Commons, Disraeli, as leader of the Opposition16, eloquently17 supported the project. He was rewarded by a copy of the Prince’s speeches, bound in white morocco, with an inscription18 in the royal hand. In his letter of thanks he “ventured to touch upon a sacred theme,” and, in a strain which re-echoed with masterly fidelity19 the sentiments of his correspondent, dwelt at length upon the absolute perfection of Albert. “The Prince,” he said, “is the only person whom Mr. Disraeli has ever known who realised the Ideal. None with whom he is acquainted have ever approached it. There was in him a union of the manly20 grace and sublime21 simplicity22, of chivalry23 with the intellectual splendour of the Attic24 Academe. The only character in English history that would, in some respects, draw near to him is Sir Philip Sidney: the same high tone, the same universal accomplishments25, the same blended tenderness and vigour26, the same rare combination of romantic energy and classic repose27.” As for his own acquaintance with the Prince, it had been, he said, “one of the most satisfactory incidents of his life: full of refined and beautiful memories, and exercising, as he hopes, over his remaining existence, a soothing28 and exalting29 influence.” Victoria was much affected30 by “the depth and delicacy31 of these touches,” and henceforward Disraeli’s place in her affections was assured. When, in 1866, the Conservatives came into office, Disraeli’s position as Chancellor32 of the Exchequer33 and leader of the House necessarily brought him into a closer relation with the Sovereign. Two years later Lord Derby resigned, and Victoria, with intense delight and peculiar35 graciousness, welcomed Disraeli as her First Minister.
But only for nine agitated36 months did he remain in power. The Ministry37, in a minority in the Commons, was swept out of existence by a general election. Yet by the end of that short period the ties which bound together the Queen and her Premier38 had grown far stronger than ever before; the relationship between them was now no longer merely that between a grateful mistress and a devoted40 servant: they were friends. His official letters, in which the personal element had always been perceptible, developed into racy records of political news and social gossip, written, as Lord Clarendon said, “in his best novel style.” Victoria was delighted; she had never, she declared, had such letters in her life, and had never before known EVERYTHING. In return, she sent him, when the spring came, several bunches of flowers, picked by her own hands. He despatched to her a set of his novels, for which, she said, she was “most grateful, and which she values much.” She herself had lately published her “Leaves from the Journal of our Life in the Highlands,” and it was observed that the Prime Minister, in conversing41 with Her Majesty42 at this period, constantly used the words “we authors, ma’am.” Upon political questions, she was his staunch supporter. “Really there never was such conduct as that of the Opposition,” she wrote. And when the Government was defeated in the House she was “really shocked at the way in which the House of Commons go on; they really bring discredit43 on Constitutional Government.” She dreaded44 the prospect45 of a change; she feared that if the Liberals insisted upon disestablishing the Irish Church, her Coronation Oath might stand in the way. But a change there had to be, and Victoria vainly tried to console herself for the loss of her favourite Minister by bestowing46 a peerage upon Mrs. Disraeli.
Mr. Gladstone was in his shirt-sleeves at Hawarden, cutting down a tree, when the royal message was brought to him. “Very significant,” he remarked, when he had read the letter, and went on cutting down his tree. His secret thoughts on the occasion were more explicit47, and were committed to his diary. “The Almighty48,” he wrote, “seems to sustain and spare me for some purpose of His own, deeply unworthy as I know myself to be. Glory be to His name.”
The Queen, however, did not share her new Minister’s view of the Almighty’s intentions. She could not believe that there was any divine purpose to be detected in the programme of sweeping49 changes which Mr. Gladstone was determined50 to carry out. But what could she do? Mr. Gladstone, with his daemonic energy and his powerful majority in the House of Commons, was irresistible51; and for five years (1869–74) Victoria found herself condemned52 to live in an agitating53 atmosphere of interminable reform — reform in the Irish Church and the Irish land system, reform in education, reform in parliamentary elections, reform in the organisation54 of the Army and the Navy, reform in the administration of justice. She disapproved55, she struggled, she grew very angry; she felt that if Albert had been living things would never have happened so; but her protests and her complaints were alike unavailing. The mere39 effort of grappling with the mass of documents which poured in upon her in an ever-growing flood was terribly exhausting. When the draft of the lengthy56 and intricate Irish Church Bill came before her, accompanied by an explanatory letter from Mr. Gladstone covering a dozen closely-written quarto pages, she almost despaired. She turned from the Bill to the explanation, and from the explanation back again to the Bill, and she could not decide which was the most confusing. But she had to do her duty: she had not only to read, but to make notes. At last she handed the whole heap of papers to Mr. Martin, who happened to be staying at Osborne, and requested him to make a precis of them. When he had done so, her disapproval57 of the measure became more marked than ever; but, such was the strength of the Government, she actually found herself obliged to urge moderation upon the Opposition, lest worse should ensue.
In the midst of this crisis, when the future of the Irish Church was hanging in the balance, Victoria’s attention was drawn58 to another proposed reform. It was suggested that the sailors in the Navy should henceforward be allowed to wear beards. “Has Mr. Childers ascertained60 anything on the subject of the beards?” the Queen wrote anxiously to the First Lord of the Admiralty. On the whole, Her Majesty was in favour of the change. “Her own personal feeling,” she wrote, “would be for the beards without the moustaches, as the latter have rather a soldierlike appearance; but then the object in view would not be obtained, viz. to prevent the necessity of shaving. Therefore it had better be as proposed, the entire beard, only it should be kept short and very clean.” After thinking over the question for another week, the Queen wrote a final letter. She wished, she said, “to make one additional observation respecting the beards, viz. that on no account should moustaches be allowed without beards. That must be clearly understood.”
Changes in the Navy might be tolerated; to lay hands upon the Army was a more serious matter. From time immemorial there had been a particularly close connection between the Army and the Crown; and Albert had devoted even more time and attention to the details of military business than to the processes of fresco-painting or the planning of sanitary61 cottages for the deserving poor. But now there was to be a great alteration62: Mr. Gladstone’s fiat63 had gone forth64, and the Commander-in-Chief was to be removed from his direct dependence65 upon the Sovereign, and made subordinate to Parliament and the Secretary of State for War. Of all the liberal reforms this was the one which aroused the bitterest resentment66 in Victoria. She considered that the change was an attack upon her personal position — almost an attack upon the personal position of Albert. But she was helpless, and the Prime Minister had his way. When she heard that the dreadful man had yet another reform in contemplation — that he was about to abolish the purchase of military commissions — she could only feel that it was just what might have been expected. For a moment she hoped that the House of Lords would come to the rescue; the Peers opposed the change with unexpected vigour; but Mr. Gladstone, more conscious than ever of the support of the Almighty, was ready with an ingenious device. The purchase of commissions had been originally allowed by Royal Warrant; it should now be disallowed67 by the same agency. Victoria was faced by a curious dilemma68: she abominated69 the abolition70 of purchase; but she was asked to abolish it by an exercise of sovereign power which was very much to her taste. She did not hesitate for long; and when the Cabinet, in a formal minute, advised her to sign the Warrant, she did so with a good grace.
Unacceptable as Mr. Gladstone’s policy was, there was something else about him which was even more displeasing71 to Victoria. She disliked his personal demeanour towards herself. It was not that Mr. Gladstone, in his intercourse72 with her, was in any degree lacking in courtesy or respect. On the contrary, an extraordinary reverence73 impregnated his manner, both in his conversation and his correspondence with the Sovereign. Indeed, with that deep and passionate conservatism which, to the very end of his incredible career, gave such an unexpected colouring to his inexplicable74 character, Mr. Gladstone viewed Victoria through a haze75 of awe76 which was almost religious — as a sacrosanct77 embodiment of venerable traditions — a vital element in the British Constitution — a Queen by Act of Parliament. But unfortunately the lady did not appreciate the compliment. The well-known complaint —“He speaks to me as if I were a public meeting-” whether authentic78 or no — and the turn of the sentence is surely a little too epigrammatic to be genuinely Victorian — undoubtedly79 expresses the essential element of her antipathy80. She had no objection to being considered as an institution; she was one, and she knew it. But she was a woman too, and to be considered ONLY as an institution — that was unbearable81. And thus all Mr. Gladstone’s zeal82 and devotion, his ceremonious phrases, his low bows, his punctilious83 correctitudes, were utterly84 wasted; and when, in the excess of his loyalty85, he went further, and imputed86 to the object of his veneration87, with obsequious88 blindness, the subtlety89 of intellect, the wide reading, the grave enthusiasm, which he himself possessed90, the misunderstanding became complete. The discordance91 between the actual Victoria and this strange Divinity made in Mr. Gladstone’s image produced disastrous92 results. Her discomfort93 and dislike turned at last into positive animosity, and, though her manners continued to be perfect, she never for a moment unbent; while he on his side was overcome with disappointment, perplexity, and mortification94.
Yet his fidelity remained unshaken. When the Cabinet met, the Prime Minister, filled with his beatific95 vision, would open the proceedings96 by reading aloud the letters which he had received from the Queen upon the questions of the hour. The assembly sat in absolute silence while, one after another, the royal missives, with their emphases, their ejaculations, and their grammatical peculiarities97, boomed forth in all the deep solemnity of Mr. Gladstone’s utterance98. Not a single comment, of any kind, was ever hazarded; and, after a fitting pause, the Cabinet proceeded with the business of the day.
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Little as Victoria appreciated her Prime Minister’s attitude towards her, she found that it had its uses. The popular discontent at her uninterrupted seclusion99 had been gathering100 force for many years, and now burst out in a new and alarming shape. Republicanism was in the air. Radical101 opinion in England, stimulated102 by the fall of Napoleon III and the establishment of a republican government in France, suddenly grew more extreme than it ever had been since 1848. It also became for the first time almost respectable. Chartism had been entirely103 an affair of the lower classes; but now Members of Parliament, learned professors, and ladies of title openly avowed104 the most subversive105 views. The monarchy107 was attacked both in theory and in practice. And it was attacked at a vital point: it was declared to be too expensive. What benefits, it was asked, did the nation reap to counterbalance the enormous sums which were expended108 upon the Sovereign? Victoria’s retirement109 gave an unpleasant handle to the argument. It was pointed110 out that the ceremonial functions of the Crown had virtually lapsed111; and the awkward question remained whether any of the other functions which it did continue to perform were really worth L385,000 per annum. The royal balance-sheet was curiously112 examined. An anonymous113 pamphlet entitled “What does she do with it?” appeared, setting forth the financial position with malicious114 clarity. The Queen, it stated, was granted by the Civil List L60,000 a year for her private use; but the rest of her vast annuity115 was given, as the Act declared, to enable her “to defray the expenses of her royal household and to support the honour and dignity of the Crown.” Now it was obvious that, since the death of the Prince, the expenditure116 for both these purposes must have been very considerably117 diminished, and it was difficult to resist the conclusion that a large sum of money was diverted annually118 from the uses for which it had been designed by Parliament, to swell119 the private fortune of Victoria. The precise amount of that private fortune it was impossible to discover; but there was reason to suppose that it was gigantic; perhaps it reached a total of five million pounds. The pamphlet protested against such a state of affairs, and its protests were repeated vigorously in newspapers and at public meetings. Though it is certain that the estimate of Victoria’s riches was much exaggerated, it is equally certain that she was an exceedingly wealthy woman. She probably saved L20,000 a year from the Civil List, the revenues of the Duchy of Lancaster were steadily increasing, she had inherited a considerable property from the Prince Consort120, and she had been left, in 1852, an estate of half a million by Mr. John Neild, an eccentric miser121. In these circumstances it was not surprising that when, in 1871, Parliament was asked to vote a dowry of L30,000 to the Princess Louise on her marriage with the eldest123 son of the Duke of Argyle, together with an annuity of L6,000, there should have been a serious outcry9.
9 In 1889 it was officially stated that the Queen’s total savings124 from the Civil List amounted to L824,025, but that out of this sum much had been spent on special entertainments to foreign visitors. Taking into consideration the proceeds from the Duchy of Lancaster, which were more than L60,000 a year, the savings of the Prince Consort, and Mr. Neild’s legacy125, it seems probable that, at the time of her death, Victoria’s private fortune approached two million pounds.
In order to conciliate public opinion, the Queen opened Parliament in person, and the vote was passed almost unanimously. But a few months later another demand was made: the Prince Arthur had come of age, and the nation was asked to grant him an annuity of L15,000. The outcry was redoubled. The newspapers were filled with angry articles; Bradlaugh thundered against “princely paupers” to one of the largest crowds that had ever been seen in Trafalgar Square; and Sir Charles Dilke expounded126 the case for a republic in a speech to his constituents127 at Newcastle. The Prince’s annuity was ultimately sanctioned in the House of Commons by a large majority; but a minority of fifty members voted in favour of reducing the sum to L10,000.
Towards every aspect of this distasteful question, Mr. Gladstone presented an iron front. He absolutely discountenanced the extreme section of his followers129. He declared that the whole of the Queen’s income was justly at her personal disposal, argued that to complain of royal savings was merely to encourage royal extravagance, and successfully convoyed through Parliament the unpopular annuities130, which, he pointed out, were strictly131 in accordance with precedent132. When, in 1872, Sir Charles Dilke once more returned to the charge in the House of Commons, introducing a motion for a full enquiry into the Queen’s expenditure with a view to a root and branch reform of the Civil List, the Prime Minister brought all the resources of his powerful and ingenious eloquence133 to the support of the Crown. He was completely successful; and amid a scene of great disorder134 the motion was ignominiously135 dismissed. Victoria was relieved; but she grew no fonder of Mr. Gladstone.
It was perhaps the most miserable136 moment of her life. The Ministers, the press, the public, all conspired137 to vex138 her, to blame her, to misinterpret her actions, to be unsympathetic and disrespectful in every way. She was “a cruelly misunderstood woman,” she told Mr. Martin, complaining to him bitterly of the unjust attacks which were made upon her, and declaring that “the great worry and anxiety and hard work for ten years, alone, unaided, with increasing age and never very strong health” were breaking her down, and “almost drove her to despair.” The situation was indeed deplorable. It seemed as if her whole existence had gone awry139; as if an irremediable antagonism140 had grown up between the Queen and the nation. If Victoria had died in the early seventies, there can be little doubt that the voice of the world would have pronounced her a failure.
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But she was reserved for a very different fate. The outburst of republicanism had been in fact the last flicker141 of an expiring cause. The liberal tide, which had been flowing steadily ever since the Reform Bill, reached its height with Mr. Gladstone’s first administration; and towards the end of that administration the inevitable142 ebb143 began. The reaction, when it came, was sudden and complete. The General Election of 1874 changed the whole face of politics. Mr. Gladstone and the Liberals were routed; and the Tory party, for the first time for over forty years, attained144 an unquestioned supremacy145 in England. It was obvious that their surprising triumph was pre-eminently due to the skill and vigour of Disraeli. He returned to office, no longer the dubious146 commander of an insufficient147 host, but with drums beating and flags flying, a conquering hero. And as a conquering hero Victoria welcomed her new Prime Minister.
Then there followed six years of excitement, of enchantment148, of felicity, of glory, of romance. The amazing being, who now at last, at the age of seventy, after a lifetime of extraordinary struggles, had turned into reality the absurdest of his boyhood’s dreams, knew well enough how to make his own, with absolute completeness, the heart of the Sovereign Lady whose servant, and whose master, he had so miraculously150 become. In women’s hearts he had always read as in an open book. His whole career had turned upon those curious entities151; and the more curious they were, the more intimately at home with them he seemed to be. But Lady Beaconsfield, with her cracked idolatry, and Mrs. Brydges–Williams, with her clogs152, her corpulence, and her legacy, were gone: an even more remarkable153 phenomenon stood in their place. He surveyed what was before him with the eye of a past-master; and he was not for a moment at a loss. He realised everything — the interacting complexities154 of circumstance and character, the pride of place mingled155 so inextricably with personal arrogance156, the superabundant emotionalism, the ingenuousness157 of outlook, the solid, the laborious158 respectability, shot through so incongruously by temperamental cravings for the coloured and the strange, the singular intellectual limitations, and the mysteriously essential female elements impregnating every particle of the whole. A smile hovered159 over his impassive features, and he dubbed160 Victoria “the Faery.” The name delighted him, for, with that epigrammatic ambiguity161 so dear to his heart, it precisely162 expressed his vision of the Queen. The Spenserian allusion163 was very pleasant — the elegant evocations of Gloriana; but there was more in it than that: there was the suggestion of a diminutive164 creature, endowed with magical — and mythical165 — properties, and a portentousness166 almost ridiculously out of keeping with the rest of her make-up. The Faery, he determined, should henceforward wave her wand for him alone. Detachment is always a rare quality, and rarest of all, perhaps, among politicians; but that veteran egotist possessed it in a supreme167 degree. Not only did he know what he had to do, not only did he do it; he was in the audience as well as on the stage; and he took in with the rich relish168 of a connoisseur169 every feature of the entertaining situation, every phase of the delicate drama, and every detail of his own consummate170 performance.
The smile hovered and vanished, and, bowing low with Oriental gravity and Oriental submissiveness, he set himself to his task. He had understood from the first that in dealing171 with the Faery the appropriate method of approach was the very antithesis172 of the Gladstonian; and such a method was naturally his. It was not his habit to harangue173 and exhort174 and expatiate175 in official conscientiousness176; he liked to scatter177 flowers along the path of business, to compress a weighty argument into a happy phrase, to insinuate178 what was in his mind with an air of friendship and confidential179 courtesy. He was nothing if not personal; and he had perceived that personality was the key that opened the Faery’s heart. Accordingly, he never for a moment allowed his intercourse with her to lose the personal tone; he invested all the transactions of State with the charms of familiar conversation; she was always the royal lady, the adored and revered mistress, he the devoted and respectful friend. When once the personal relation was firmly established, every difficulty disappeared. But to maintain that relation uninterruptedly in a smooth and even course a particular care was necessary: the bearings had to be most assiduously oiled. Nor was Disraeli in any doubt as to the nature of the lubricant. “You have heard me called a flatterer,” he said to Matthew Arnold, “and it is true. Everyone likes flattery, and when you come to royalty180 you should lay it on with a trowel.” He practiced what he preached. His adulation was incessant181, and he applied182 it in the very thickest slabs183. “There is no honor and no reward,” he declared, “that with him can ever equal the possession of your Majesty’s kind thoughts. All his own thoughts and feelings and duties and affections are now concentrated in your Majesty, and he desires nothing more for his remaining years than to serve your Majesty, or, if that service ceases, to live still on its memory as a period of his existence most interesting and fascinating.” “In life,” he told her, “one must have for one’s thoughts a sacred depository, and Lord Beaconsfield ever presumes to seek that in his Sovereign Mistress.” She was not only his own solitary184 support; she was the one prop59 of the State. “If your Majesty is ill,” he wrote during a grave political crisis, “he is sure he will himself break down. All, really, depends upon your Majesty.” “He lives only for Her,” he asseverated185, “and works only for Her, and without Her all is lost.” When her birthday came he produced an elaborate confection of hyperbolic compliment. “To-day Lord Beaconsfield ought fitly, perhaps, to congratulate a powerful Sovereign on her imperial sway, the vastness of her Empire, and the success and strength of her fleets and armies. But he cannot, his mind is in another mood. He can only think of the strangeness of his destiny that it has come to pass that he should be the servant of one so great, and whose infinite kindness, the brightness of whose intelligence and the firmness of whose will, have enabled him to undertake labours to which he otherwise would be quite unequal, and supported him in all things by a condescending186 sympathy, which in the hour of difficulty alike charms and inspires. Upon the Sovereign of many lands and many hearts may an omnipotent187 Providence188 shed every blessing189 that the wise can desire and the virtuous190 deserve!” In those expert hands the trowel seemed to assume the qualities of some lofty masonic symbol — to be the ornate and glittering vehicle of verities191 unrealised by the profane192.
Such tributes were delightful193, but they remained in the nebulous region of words, and Disraeli had determined to give his blandishments a more significant solidity. He deliberately194 encouraged those high views of her own position which had always been native to Victoria’s mind and had been reinforced by the principles of Albert and the doctrines195 of Stockmar. He professed196 to a belief in a theory of the Constitution which gave the Sovereign a leading place in the councils of government; but his pronouncements upon the subject were indistinct; and when he emphatically declared that there ought to be “a real Throne,” it was probably with the mental addition that that throne would be a very unreal one indeed whose occupant was unamenable to his cajoleries. But the vagueness of his language was in itself an added stimulant198 to Victoria. Skilfully199 confusing the woman and the Queen, he threw, with a grandiose200 gesture, the government of England at her feet, as if in doing so he were performing an act of personal homage201. In his first audience after returning to power, he assured her that “whatever she wished should be done.” When the intricate Public Worship Regulation Bill was being discussed by the Cabinet, he told the Faery that his “only object” was “to further your Majesty’s wishes in this matter.” When he brought off his great coup202 over the Suez Canal, he used expressions which implied that the only gainer by the transaction was Victoria. “It is just settled,” he wrote in triumph; “you have it, Madam . . . Four millions sterling203! and almost immediately. There was only one firm that could do it — Rothschilds. They behaved admirably; advanced the money at a low rate, and the entire interest of the Khedive is now yours, Madam.” Nor did he limit himself to highly-spiced insinuations. Writing with all the authority of his office, he advised the Queen that she had the constitutional right to dismiss a Ministry which was supported by a large majority in the House of Commons, he even urged her to do so, if, in her opinion, “your Majesty’s Government have from wilfulness204, or even from weakness, deceived your Majesty.” To the horror of Mr. Gladstone, he not only kept the Queen informed as to the general course of business in the Cabinet, but revealed to her the part taken in its discussions by individual members of it. Lord Derby, the son of the late Prime Minister and Disraeli’s Foreign Secretary, viewed these developments with grave mistrust. “Is there not,” he ventured to write to his Chief, “just a risk of encouraging her in too large ideas of her personal power, and too great indifference205 to what the public expects? I only ask; it is for you to judge.”
As for Victoria, she accepted everything — compliments, flatteries, Elizabethan prerogatives206 — without a single qualm. After the long gloom of her bereavement207, after the chill of the Gladstonian discipline, she expanded to the rays of Disraeli’s devotion like a flower in the sun. The change in her situation was indeed miraculous149. No longer was she obliged to puzzle for hours over the complicated details of business, for now she had only to ask Mr. Disraeli for an explanation, and he would give it her in the most concise208, in the most amusing, way. No longer was she worried by alarming novelties; no longer was she put out at finding herself treated, by a reverential gentleman in high collars, as if she were some embodied209 precedent, with a recondite210 knowledge of Greek. And her deliverer was surely the most fascinating of men. The strain of charlatanism211, which had unconsciously captivated her in Napoleon III, exercised the same enchanting212 effect in the case of Disraeli. Like a dram-drinker, whose ordinary life is passed in dull sobriety, her unsophisticated intelligence gulped213 down his rococo214 allurements215 with peculiar zest216. She became intoxicated217, entranced. Believing all that he told her of herself, she completely regained218 the self-confidence which had been slipping away from her throughout the dark period that followed Albert’s death. She swelled219 with a new elation34, while he, conjuring220 up before her wonderful Oriental visions, dazzled her eyes with an imperial grandeur221 of which she had only dimly dreamed. Under the compelling influence, her very demeanour altered. Her short, stout222 figure, with its folds of black velvet223, its muslin streamers, its heavy pearls at the heavy neck, assumed an almost menacing air. In her countenance128, from which the charm of youth had long since vanished, and which had not yet been softened224 by age, the traces of grief, of disappointment, and of displeasure were still visible, but they were overlaid by looks of arrogance and sharp lines of peremptory225 hauteur226. Only, when Mr. Disraeli appeared, the expression changed in an instant, and the forbidding visage became charged with smiles. For him she would do anything. Yielding to his encouragements, she began to emerge from her seclusion; she appeared in London in semi-state, at hospitals and concerts; she opened Parliament; she reviewed troops and distributed medals at Aldershot. But such public signs of favour were trivial in comparison with her private attentions. During his flours of audience, she could hardly restrain her excitement and delight. “I can only describe my reception,” he wrote to a friend on one occasion, “by telling you that I really thought she was going to embrace me. She was wreathed with smiles, and, as she tattled, glided227 about the room like a bird.” In his absence, she talked of him perpetually, and there was a note of unusual vehemence228 in her solicitude229 for his health. “John Manners,” Disraeli told Lady Bradford, “who has just come from Osborne, says that the Faery only talked of one subject, and that was her Primo. According to him, it was her gracious opinion that the Government should make my health a Cabinet question. Dear John seemed quite surprised at what she said; but you are used to these ebullitions.” She often sent him presents; an illustrated230 album arrived for him regularly from Windsor on Christmas Day. But her most valued gifts were the bunches of spring flowers which, gathered by herself and her ladies in the woods at Osborne, marked in an especial manner the warmth and tenderness of her sentiments. Among these it was, he declared, the primroses231 that he loved the best. They were, he said, “the ambassadors of Spring, the gems232 and jewels of Nature.” He liked them, he assured her, “so much better for their being wild; they seem an offering from the Fauns and Dryads of Osborne.” “They show,” he told her, “that your Majesty’s sceptre has touched the enchanted233 Isle234.” He sat at dinner with heaped-up bowls of them on every side, and told his guests that “they were all sent to me this morning by the Queen from Osborne, as she knows it is my favorite flower.”
As time went on, and as it became clearer and clearer that the Faery’s thraldom235 was complete, his protestations grew steadily more highly — coloured and more unabashed. At last he ventured to import into his blandishments a strain of adoration236 that was almost avowedly238 romantic. In phrases of baroque convolution, he conveyed the message of his heart. “The pressure of business,” he wrote, had “so absorbed and exhausted239 him, that towards the hour of post he has not had clearness of mind, and vigour of pen, adequate to convey his thoughts and facts to the most loved and illustrious being, who deigns240 to consider them.” She sent him some primroses, and he replied that he could “truly say they are ‘more precious than rubies,’ coming, as they do, and at such a moment, from a Sovereign whom he adores.” She sent him snowdrops, and his sentiment overflowed241 into poetry. “Yesterday eve,” he wrote, “there appeared, in Whitehall Gardens, a delicate-looking case, with a royal superscription, which, when he opened, he thought, at first, that your Majesty had graciously bestowed242 upon him the stars of your Majesty’s principal orders.” And, indeed, he was so impressed with this graceful243 illusion, that, having a banquet, where there were many stars and ribbons, he could not resist the temptation, by placing some snowdrops on his heart, of showing that, he, too, was decorated by a gracious Sovereign.
Then, in the middle of the night, it occurred to him, that it might all be an enchantment, and that, perhaps, it was a Faery gift and came from another monarch106: Queen Titania, gathering flowers, with her Court, in a soft and sea-girt isle, and sending magic blossoms, which, they say, turn the heads of those who receive them.
A Faery gift! Did he smile as he wrote the words? Perhaps; and yet it would be rash to conclude that his perfervid declarations were altogether without sincerity244. Actor and spectator both, the two characters were so intimately blended together in that odd composition that they formed an inseparable unity245, and it was impossible to say that one of them was less genuine than the other. With one element, he could coldly appraise246 the Faery’s intellectual capacity, note with some surprise that she could be on occasion “most interesting and amusing,” and then continue his use of the trowel with an ironical247 solemnity; while, with the other, he could be overwhelmed by the immemorial panoply248 of royalty, and, thrilling with the sense of his own strange elevation249, dream himself into a gorgeous phantasy of crowns and powers and chivalric250 love. When he told Victoria that “during a somewhat romantic and imaginative life, nothing has ever occurred to him so interesting as this confidential correspondence with one so exalted251 and so inspiring,” was he not in earnest after all? When he wrote to a lady about the Court, “I love the Queen — perhaps the only person in this world left to me that I do love,” was he not creating for himself an enchanted palace out of the Arabian Nights, full of melancholy252 and spangles, in which he actually believed? Victoria’s state of mind was far more simple; untroubled by imaginative yearnings, she never lost herself in that nebulous region of the spirit where feeling and fancy grow confused. Her emotions, with all their intensity253 and all their exaggeration, retained the plain prosaic254 texture255 of everyday life. And it was fitting that her expression of them should be equally commonplace. She was, she told her Prime Minister, at the end of an official letter, “yours aff’ly V. R. and I.” In such a phrase the deep reality of her feeling is instantly manifest. The Faery’s feet were on the solid earth; it was the ruse256 cynic who was in the air.
He had taught her, however, a lesson, which she had learnt with alarming rapidity. A second Gloriana, did he call her? Very well, then, she would show that she deserved the compliment. Disquieting257 symptoms followed fast. In May, 1874, the Tsar, whose daughter had just been married to Victoria’s second son, the Duke of Edinburgh, was in London, and, by an unfortunate error, it had been arranged that his departure should not take place until two days after the date on which his royal hostess had previously258 decided259 to go to Balmoral. Her Majesty refused to modify her plans. It was pointed out to her that the Tsar would certainly be offended, that the most serious consequences might follow; Lord Derby protested; Lord Salisbury, the Secretary of State for India, was much perturbed260. But the Faery was unconcerned; she had settled to go to Balmoral on the 18th, and on the 18th she would go. At last Disraeli, exercising all his influence, induced her to agree to stay in London for two days more. “My head is still on my shoulders,” he told Lady Bradford. “The great lady has absolutely postponed261 her departure! Everybody had failed, even the Prince of Wales . . . and I have no doubt I am not in favour. I can’t help it. Salisbury says I have saved an Afghan War, and Derby compliments me on my unrivalled triumph.” But before very long, on another issue, the triumph was the Faery’s. Disraeli, who had suddenly veered262 towards a new Imperialism263, had thrown out the suggestion that the Queen of England ought to become the Empress of India. Victoria seized upon the idea with avidity, and, in season and out of season, pressed upon her Prime Minister the desirability of putting his proposal into practice. He demurred264; but she was not to be baulked; and in 1876, in spite of his own unwillingness266 and that of his entire Cabinet, he found himself obliged to add to the troubles of a stormy session by introducing a bill for the alteration of the Royal Title. His compliance267, however, finally conquered the Faery’s heart. The measure was angrily attacked in both Houses, and Victoria was deeply touched by the untiring energy with which Disraeli defended it. She was, she said, much grieved by “the worry and annoyance” to which he was subjected; she feared she was the cause of it; and she would never forget what she owed to “her kind, good, and considerate friend.” At the same time, her wrath268 fell on the Opposition. Their conduct, she declared, was “extraordinary, incomprehensible, and mistaken,” and, in an emphatic197 sentence which seemed to contradict both itself and all her former proceedings, she protested that she “would be glad if it were more generally known that it was HER wish, as people WILL have it, that it has been FORCED UPON HER!” When the affair was successfully over, the imperial triumph was celebrated269 in a suitable manner. On the day of the Delhi Proclamation, the new Earl of Beaconsfield went to Windsor to dine with the new Empress of India. That night the Faery, usually so homely270 in her attire271, appeared in a glittering panoply of enormous uncut jewels, which had been presented to her by the reigning272 Princes of her Raj. At the end of the meal the Prime Minister, breaking through the rules of etiquette273, arose, and in a flowery oration237 proposed the health of the Queen–Empress. His audacity274 was well received, and his speech was rewarded by a smiling curtsey.
These were significant episodes; but a still more serious manifestation275 of Victoria’s temper occurred in the following year, during the crowning crisis of Beaconsfield’s life. His growing imperialism, his desire to magnify the power and prestige of England, his insistence276 upon a “spirited foreign policy,” had brought him into collision with Russia; the terrible Eastern Question loomed277 up; and when war broke out between Russia and Turkey, the gravity of the situation became extreme. The Prime Minister’s policy was fraught278 with difficulty and danger. Realising perfectly279 the appalling280 implications of an Anglo–Russian war, he was yet prepared to face even that eventuality if he could obtain his ends by no other method; but he believed that Russia in reality was still less desirous of a rupture281, and that, if he played his game with sufficient boldness and adroitness282, she would yield, when it came to the point, all that he required without a blow. It was clear that the course he had marked out for himself was full of hazard, and demanded an extraordinary nerve; a single false step, and either himself, or England, might be plunged283 in disaster. But nerve he had never lacked; he began his diplomatic egg-dance with high assurance; and then he discovered that, besides the Russian Government, besides the Liberals and Mr. Gladstone, there were two additional sources of perilous284 embarrassment285 with which he would have to reckon. In the first place there was a strong party in the Cabinet, headed by Lord Derby, the Foreign Secretary, which was unwilling265 to take the risk of war; but his culminating anxiety was the Faery.
From the first, her attitude was uncompromising. The old hatred286 of Russia, which had been engendered287 by the Crimean War, surged up again within her; she remembered Albert’s prolonged animosity; she felt the prickings of her own greatness; and she flung herself into the turmoil288 with passionate heat. Her indignation with the Opposition — with anyone who ventured to sympathise with the Russians in their quarrel with the Turks — was unbounded. When anti-Turkish meetings were held in London, presided over by the Duke of Westminster and Lord Shaftesbury, and attended by Mr. Gladstone and other prominent Radicals289, she considered that “the Attorney–General ought to be set at these men;” “it can’t,” she exclaimed, “be constitutional.” Never in her life, not even in the crisis over the Ladies of the Bedchamber, did she show herself a more furious partisan290. But her displeasure was not reserved for the Radicals; the backsliding Conservatives equally felt its force. She was even discontented with Lord Beaconsfield himself. Failing entirely to appreciate the delicate complexity291 of his policy, she constantly assailed292 him with demands for vigorous action, interpreted each finesse293 as a sign of weakness, and was ready at every juncture294 to let slip the dogs of war. As the situation developed, her anxiety grew feverish295. “The Queen,” she wrote, “is feeling terribly anxious lest delay should cause us to be too late and lose our prestige for ever! It worries her night and day.” “The Faery,” Beaconsfield told Lady Bradford, “writes every day and telegraphs every hour; this is almost literally296 the case.” She raged loudly against the Russians. “And the language,” she cried, “the insulting language — used by the Russians against us! It makes the Queen’s blood boil!” “Oh,” she wrote a little later, “if the Queen were a man, she would like to go and give those Russians, whose word one cannot believe, such a beating! We shall never be friends again till we have it out. This the Queen feels sure of.”
The unfortunate Prime Minister, urged on to violence by Victoria on one side, had to deal, on the other, with a Foreign Secretary who was fundamentally opposed to any policy of active interference at all. Between the Queen and Lord Derby he held a harassed297 course. He gained, indeed, some slight satisfaction in playing on the one against the other — in stimulating298 Lord Derby with the Queen’s missives, and in appeasing299 the Queen by repudiating300 Lord Derby’s opinions; on one occasion he actually went so far as to compose, at Victoria’s request, a letter bitterly attacking his colleague, which Her Majesty forthwith signed, and sent, without alteration, to the Foreign Secretary. But such devices only gave a temporary relief; and it soon became evident that Victoria’s martial301 ardour was not to be sidetracked by hostilities302 against Lord Derby; hostilities against Russia were what she wanted, what she would, what she must, have. For now, casting aside the last relics303 of moderation, she began to attack her friend with a series of extraordinary threats. Not once, not twice, but many times she held over his head the formidable menace of her imminent304 abdication305. “If England,” she wrote to Beaconsfield, “is to kiss Russia’s feet, she will not be a party to the humiliation306 of England and would lay down her crown,” and she added that the Prime Minister might, if he thought fit, repeat her words to the Cabinet. “This delay,” she ejaculated, “this uncertainty307 by which, abroad, we are losing our prestige and our position, while Russia is advancing and will be before Constantinople in no time! Then the Government will be fearfully blamed and the Queen so humiliated308 that she thinks she would abdicate309 at once. Be bold!” “She feels,” she reiterated310, “she cannot, as she before said, remain the Sovereign of a country that is letting itself down to kiss the feet of the great barbarians311, the retarders of all liberty and civilisation312 that exists.” When the Russians advanced to the outskirts313 of Constantinople she fired off three letters in a day demanding war; and when she learnt that the Cabinet had only decided to send the Fleet to Gallipoli she declared that “her first impulse” was “to lay down the thorny314 crown, which she feels little satisfaction in retaining if the position of this country is to remain as it is now.” It is easy to imagine the agitating effect of such a correspondence upon Beaconsfield. This was no longer the Faery; it was a genie315 whom he had rashly called out of her bottle, and who was now intent upon showing her supernal316 power. More than once, perplexed317, dispirited, shattered by illness, he had thoughts of withdrawing altogether from the game. One thing alone, he told Lady Bradford, with a wry122 smile, prevented him. “If I could only,” he wrote, “face the scene which would occur at headquarters if I resigned, I would do so at once.”
He held on, however, to emerge victorious318 at last. The Queen was pacified319; Lord Derby was replaced by Lord Salisbury; and at the Congress of Berlin der alte Jude carried all before him. He returned to England in triumph, and assured the delighted Victoria that she would very soon be, if she was not already, the “Dictatress of Europe.”
But soon there was an unexpected reverse. At the General Election of 1880 the country, mistrustful of the forward policy of the Conservatives, and carried away by Mr. Gladstone’s oratory320, returned the Liberals to power. Victoria was horrified321, but within a year she was to be yet more nearly hit. The grand romance had come to its conclusion. Lord Beaconsfield, worn out with age and maladies, but moving still, an assiduous mummy, from dinner-party to dinner-party, suddenly moved no longer. When she knew that the end was inevitable, she seemed, by a pathetic instinct, to divest322 herself of her royalty, and to shrink, with hushed gentleness, beside him, a woman and nothing more. “I send some Osborne primroses,” she wrote to him with touching323 simplicity, “and I meant to pay you a little visit this week, but I thought it better you should be quite quiet and not speak. And I beg you will be very good and obey the doctors.” She would see him, she said, “when we, come back from Osborne, which won’t be long.” “Everyone is so distressed324 at your not being well,” she added; and she was, “Ever yours very aff’ly V.R.I.” When the royal letter was given him, the strange old comedian325, stretched on his bed of death, poised326 it in his hand, appeared to consider deeply, and then whispered to those about him, “This ought to be read to me by a Privy327 Councillor.”
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1
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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protagonists
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| n.（戏剧的）主角( protagonist的名词复数 )；（故事的）主人公；现实事件（尤指冲突和争端的）主要参与者；领导者 | |
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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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disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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virulence
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| n.毒力，毒性；病毒性；致病力 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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eulogies
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| n.颂词，颂文( eulogy的名词复数 ) | |
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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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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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exalting
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| a.令人激动的，令人喜悦的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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exchequer
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| n.财政部；国库 | |
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elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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premier
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| adj.首要的；n.总理，首相 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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43
discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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44
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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47
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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48
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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49
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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50
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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51
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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52
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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53
agitating
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| 搅动( agitate的现在分词 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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54
organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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55
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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57
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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58
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
sanitary
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| adj.卫生方面的，卫生的，清洁的，卫生的 | |
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62
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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63
fiat
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| n.命令，法令，批准；vt.批准，颁布 | |
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64
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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disallowed
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| v.不承认（某事物）有效( disallow的过去式和过去分词 )；不接受；不准；驳回 | |
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68
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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69
abominated
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| v.憎恶，厌恶，不喜欢( abominate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
abolition
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| n.废除，取消 | |
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71
displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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72
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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73
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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74
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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75
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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76
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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77
sacrosanct
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| adj.神圣不可侵犯的 | |
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78
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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79
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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80
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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81
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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82
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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83
punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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84
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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85
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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86
imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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88
obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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89
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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90
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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91
discordance
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| n.不调和，不和，不一致性；不整合；假整合 | |
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92
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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93
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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94
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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95
beatific
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| adj.快乐的，有福的 | |
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96
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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97
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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98
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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99
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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100
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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101
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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102
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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103
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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104
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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105
subversive
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| adj.颠覆性的，破坏性的；n.破坏份子，危险份子 | |
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106
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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107
monarchy
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| n.君主，最高统治者；君主政体，君主国 | |
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108
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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109
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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110
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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111
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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112
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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113
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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114
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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115
annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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116
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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117
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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118
annually
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| adv.一年一次，每年 | |
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119
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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120
consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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121
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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122
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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123
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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124
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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125
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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126
expounded
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
constituents
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| n.选民( constituent的名词复数 )；成分；构成部分；要素 | |
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128
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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129
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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130
annuities
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| n.养老金；年金( annuity的名词复数 )；（每年的）养老金；年金保险；年金保险投资 | |
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131
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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132
precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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133
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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134
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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135
ignominiously
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| adv.耻辱地，屈辱地，丢脸地 | |
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136
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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137
conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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138
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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139
awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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140
antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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141
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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142
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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143
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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144
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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145
supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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146
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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147
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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148
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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149
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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150
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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151
entities
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| 实体对像； 实体，独立存在体，实际存在物( entity的名词复数 ) | |
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152
clogs
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| 木屐； 木底鞋，木屐( clog的名词复数 ) | |
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153
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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154
complexities
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| 复杂性(complexity的名词复数)； 复杂的事物 | |
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155
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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156
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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157
ingenuousness
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| n.率直；正直；老实 | |
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158
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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159
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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160
dubbed
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| v.给…起绰号( dub的过去式和过去分词 )；把…称为；配音；复制 | |
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161
ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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162
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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163
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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164
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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165
mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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166
portentousness
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| Portentousness | |
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167
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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168
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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169
connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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170
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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171
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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172
antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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173
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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174
exhort
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| v.规劝，告诫 | |
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175
expatiate
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| v.细说，详述 | |
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176
conscientiousness
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| 责任心 | |
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177
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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178
insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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179
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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180
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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181
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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182
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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183
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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184
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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185
asseverated
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| v.郑重声明，断言( asseverate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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186
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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187
omnipotent
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| adj.全能的，万能的 | |
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188
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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189
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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190
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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191
verities
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| n.真实( verity的名词复数 )；事实；真理；真实的陈述 | |
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192
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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193
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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194
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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195
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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196
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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197
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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198
stimulant
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| n.刺激物，兴奋剂 | |
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199
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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200
grandiose
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| adj.宏伟的，宏大的，堂皇的，铺张的 | |
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201
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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202
coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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203
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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204
wilfulness
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| 任性；倔强 | |
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205
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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206
prerogatives
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| n.权利( prerogative的名词复数 )；特权；大主教法庭；总督委任组成的法庭 | |
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207
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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208
concise
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| adj.简洁的，简明的 | |
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209
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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210
recondite
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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211
charlatanism
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| n.庸医术，庸医的行为 | |
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212
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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213
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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214
rococo
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| n.洛可可；adj.过分修饰的 | |
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215
allurements
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| n.诱惑( allurement的名词复数 )；吸引；诱惑物；有诱惑力的事物 | |
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216
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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217
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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218
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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219
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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220
conjuring
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| n.魔术 | |
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221
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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223
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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224
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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225
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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226
hauteur
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| n.傲慢 | |
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227
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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228
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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229
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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230
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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231
primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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232
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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233
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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234
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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235
thraldom
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| n.奴隶的身份，奴役，束缚 | |
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236
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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237
oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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238
avowedly
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| adv.公然地 | |
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239
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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240
deigns
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的第三人称单数 ) | |
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241
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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242
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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243
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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244
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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245
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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246
appraise
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| v.估价，评价，鉴定 | |
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247
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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248
panoply
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| n.全副甲胄，礼服 | |
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249
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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250
chivalric
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| 有武士气概的，有武士风范的 | |
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251
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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252
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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253
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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254
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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255
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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256
ruse
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| n.诡计，计策；诡计 | |
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257
disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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258
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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259
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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260
perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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261
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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262
veered
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| v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的过去式和过去分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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263
imperialism
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| n.帝国主义，帝国主义政策 | |
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264
demurred
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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265
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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266
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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267
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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268
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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269
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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270
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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271
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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272
reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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273
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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274
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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275
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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276
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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277
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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278
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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279
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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280
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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281
rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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282
adroitness
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283
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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284
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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285
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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286
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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287
engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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288
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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289
radicals
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| n.激进分子( radical的名词复数 )；根基；基本原理；[数学]根数 | |
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290
partisan
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| adj.党派性的；游击队的；n.游击队员；党徒 | |
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291
complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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292
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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293
finesse
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| n.精密技巧，灵巧，手腕 | |
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294
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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295
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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296
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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297
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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298
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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299
appeasing
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的现在分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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300
repudiating
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的现在分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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301
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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302
hostilities
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| n.战争；敌意(hostility的复数)；敌对状态；战事 | |
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303
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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304
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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305
abdication
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| n.辞职；退位 | |
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306
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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307
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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308
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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309
abdicate
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| v.让位，辞职，放弃 | |
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310
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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311
barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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312
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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313
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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314
thorny
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| adj.多刺的，棘手的 | |
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315
genie
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| n.妖怪，神怪 | |
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316
supernal
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| adj.天堂的，天上的；崇高的 | |
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317
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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318
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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319
pacified
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的过去式和过去分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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320
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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321
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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322
divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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323
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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324
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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325
comedian
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| n.喜剧演员；滑稽演员 | |
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326
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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327
privy
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| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
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