The Sunday after Miss Bartlett's arrival was a glorious day, like most of the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching1 the parks with the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the heights, battalions2 of black pines witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable. Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in either arose the tinkle3 of church bells.
The garden of Windy Corners was deserted4 except for a red book, which lay sunning itself upon the gravel5 path. From the house came incoherent sounds, as of females preparing for worship. "The men say they won't go"-- "Well, I don't blame them"-- Minnie says, need she go?"-- "Tell her, no nonsense"-- "Anne! Mary! Hook me behind!"-- "Dearest Lucia, may I trespass6 upon you for a pin?" For Miss Bartlett had announced that she at all events was one for church.
The sun rose higher on its journey, guided, not by Phaethon, but by Apollo, competent, unswerving, divine. Its rays fell on the ladies whenever they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on Mr. Beebe down at Summer Street as he smiled over a letter from Miss Catharine Alan; on George Emerson cleaning his father's boots; and lastly, to complete the catalogue of memorable7 things, on the red book mentioned previously8. The ladies move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and movement may engender9 shadow. But this book lies motionless, to be caressed11 all the morning by the sun and to raise its covers slightly, as though acknowledging the caress10.
Presently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room window. Her new cerise dress has been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan12. At her throat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies--an engagement ring. Her eyes are bent13 to the Weald. She frowns a little--not in anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying not to cry. In all that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she may frown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apollo and the western hills.
"Lucy! Lucy! What's that book? Who's been taking a book out of the shelf and leaving it about to spoil?"
"It's only the library book that Cecil's been reading."
"But pick it up, and don't stand idling there like a flamingo14."
Lucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under a Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare time to solid literature in the hope of catching15 Cecil up. It was dreadful how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning she had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said, "What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?" And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted16 the dear view and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun.
"Lucy--have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?"
She hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into a Sunday fluster17.
"It's a special collection--I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgar clinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nice bright sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book's all warped18. (Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under the Atlas19 to press. Minnie!"
"Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch--" from the upper regions.
"Minnie, don't be late. Here comes the horse" --it was always the horse, never the carriage. "Where's Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is she so long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but blouses. Poor Charlotte-- How I do detest20 blouses! Minnie!"
Paganism is infectious--more infectious than diphtheria or piety21 --and the Rector's niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn't see why. Why shouldn't she sit in the sun with the young men? The young men, who had now appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. Mrs. Honeychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the midst of the confusion Miss Bartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion, came strolling down the stairs.
"Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no small change-- nothing but sovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me--"
"Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovely frock! You put us all to shame."
"If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wear them?" said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued, and then they drove off.
"Good-bye! Be good!" called out Cecil.
Lucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering22. On the subject of "church and so on" they had had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He had said that people ought to overhaul23 themselves, and she did not want to overhaul herself; she did not know it was done. Honest orthodoxy Cecil respected, but he always assumed that honesty is the result of a spiritual crisis; he could not imagine it as a natural birthright, that might grow heavenward like flowers. All that he said on this subject pained her, though he exuded24 tolerance25 from every pore; somehow the Emersons were different.
She saw the Emersons after church. There was a line of carriages down the road, and the Honeychurch vehicle happened to be opposite Cissie Villa26. To save time, they walked over the green to it, and found father and son smoking in the garden.
"Introduce me," said her mother. "Unless the young man considers that he knows me already."
He probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacred Lake and introduced them formally. Old Mr. Emerson claimed her with much warmth, and said how glad he was that she was going to be married. She said yes, she was glad too; and then, as Miss Bartlett and Minnie were lingering behind with Mr. Beebe, she turned the conversation to a less disturbing topic, and asked him how he liked his new house.
"Very much," he replied, but there was a note of offence in his voice; she had never known him offended before. He added: "We find, though, that the Miss Alans were coming, and that we have turned them out. Women mind such a thing. I am very much upset about it."
"I believe that there was some misunderstanding," said Mrs. Honeychurch uneasily.
"Our landlord was told that we should be a different type of person," said George, who seemed disposed to carry the matter further. "He thought we should be artistic27. He is disappointed."
"And I wonder whether we ought to write to the Miss Alans and offer to give it up. What do you think?" He appealed to Lucy.
"Oh, stop now you have come," said Lucy lightly. She must avoid censuring29 Cecil. For it was on Cecil that the little episode turned, though his name was never mentioned.
"So George says. He says that the Miss Alans must go to the wall. Yet it does seem so unkind."
"There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world," said George, watching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages.
"Yes!" exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. "That's exactly what I say. Why all this twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?"
"There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain amount of light," he continued in measured tones. "We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won't do harm--yes, choose a place where you won't do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine."
"Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you're clever!"
"Eh--?"
"I see you're going to be clever. I hope you didn't go behaving like that to poor Freddy."
George's eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother would get on rather well.
"No, I didn't," he said. "He behaved that way to me. It is his philosophy. Only he starts life with it; and I have tried the Note of Interrogation first."
"What DO you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don't explain. He looks forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mind tennis on Sunday--?"
"George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguish between Sunday--"
"Very well, George doesn't mind tennis on Sunday. No more do I. That's settled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son we should be so pleased."
He thanked her, but the walk sounded rather far; he could only potter about in these days.
She turned to George: "And then he wants to give up his house to the Miss Alans."
"I know," said George, and put his arm round his father's neck. The kindness that Mr. Beebe and Lucy had always known to exist in him came out suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast landscape--a touch of the morning sun? She remembered that in all his perversities he had never spoken against affection.
Miss Bartlett approached.
"You know our cousin, Miss Bartlett," said Mrs. Honeychurch pleasantly. "You met her with my daughter in Florence."
"Yes, indeed!" said the old man, and made as if he would come out of the garden to meet the lady. Miss Bartlett promptly31 got into the victoria. Thus entrenched32, she emitted a formal bow. It was the pension Bertolini again, the dining-table with the decanters of water and wine. It was the old, old battle of the room with the view.
George did not respond to the bow. Like any boy, he blushed and was ashamed; he knew that the chaperon remembered. He said: "I-- I'll come up to tennis if I can manage it," and went into the house. Perhaps anything that he did would have pleased Lucy, but his awkwardness went straight to her heart; men were not gods after all, but as human and as clumsy as girls; even men might suffer from unexplained desires, and need help. To one of her upbringing, and of her destination, the weakness of men was a truth unfamiliar33, but she had surmised34 it at Florence, when George threw her photographs into the River Arno.
"George, don't go," cried his father, who thought it a great treat for people if his son would talk to them. "George has been in such good spirits today, and I am sure he will end by coming up this afternoon."
Lucy caught her cousin's eye. Something in its mute appeal made her reckless. "Yes," she said, raising her voice, "I do hope he will." Then she went to the carriage and murmured, "The old man hasn't been told; I knew it was all right." Mrs. Honeychurch followed her, and they drove away.
Satisfactory that Mr. Emerson had not been told of the Florence escapade; yet Lucy's spirits should not have leapt up as if she had sighted the ramparts of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she greeted it with disproportionate joy. All the way home the horses' hoofs35 sang a tune36 to her: "He has not told, he has not told." Her brain expanded the melody: "He has not told his father--to whom he tells all things. It was not an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone." She raised her hand to her cheek. "He does not love me. No. How terrible if he did! But he has not told. He will not tell."
She longed to shout the words: "It is all right. It's a secret between us two for ever. Cecil will never hear." She was even glad that Miss Bartlett had made her promise secrecy37, that last dark evening at Florence, when they had knelt packing in his room. The secret, big or little, was guarded.
Only three English people knew of it in the world. Thus she interpreted her joy. She greeted Cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt so safe. As he helped her out of the carriage, she said:
"The Emersons have been so nice. George Emerson has improved enormously."
"How are my proteges?" asked Cecil, who took no real interest in them, and had long since forgotten his resolution to bring them to Windy Corner for educational purposes.
"Proteges!" she exclaimed with some warmth. For the only relationship which Cecil conceived was feudal38: that of protector and protected. He had no glimpse of the comradeship after which the girl's soul yearned39.
"You shall see for yourself how your proteges are. George Emerson is coming up this afternoon. He is a most interesting man to talk to. Only don't--" She nearly said, "Don't protect him." But the bell was ringing for lunch, and, as often happened, Cecil had paid no great attention to her remarks. Charm, not argument, was to be her forte40.
Lunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was depressed41 at meals. Some one had to be soothed--either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a Being not visible to the mortal eye--a Being who whispered to her soul: "It will not last, this cheerfulness. In January you must go to London to entertain the grandchildren of celebrated42 men." But to-day she felt she had received a guarantee. Her mother would always sit there, her brother here. The sun, though it had moved a little since the morning, would never be hidden behind the western hills. After luncheon43 they asked her to play. She had seen Gluck's Armide that year, and played from memory the music of the enchanted44 garden--the music to which Renaud approaches, beneath the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never gains, never wanes45, but ripples46 for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland. Such music is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive47, and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: "Now play us the other garden--the one in Parsifal."
She closed the instrument.
"Not very dutiful," said her mother's voice.
Fearing that she had offended Cecil, she turned quickly round. There George was. He had crept in without interrupting her.
"Oh, I had no idea!" she exclaimed, getting very red; and then, without a word of greeting, she reopened the piano. Cecil should have the Parsifal, and anything else that he liked.
"Our performer has changed her mind," said Miss Bartlett, perhaps implying, she will play the music to Mr. Emerson. Lucy did not know what to do nor even what she wanted to do. She played a few bars of the Flower Maidens48' song very badly and then she stopped.
"I vote tennis," said Freddy, disgusted at the scrappy entertainment.
"Yes, so do I." Once more she closed the unfortunate piano. "I vote you have a men's four."
"All right."
"Not for me, thank you," said Cecil. "I will not spoil the set." He never realized that it may be an act of kindness in a bad player to make up a fourth.
"Oh, come along Cecil. I'm bad, Floyd's rotten, and so I dare say's Emerson."
George corrected him: "I am not bad."
One looked down one's nose at this. "Then certainly I won't play," said Cecil, while Miss Bartlett, under the impression that she was snubbing George, added: "I agree with you, Mr. Vyse. You had much better not play. Much better not."
Minnie, rushing in where Cecil feared to tread, announced that she would play. "I shall miss every ball anyway, so what does it matter?" But Sunday intervened and stamped heavily upon the kindly49 suggestion.
"Then it will have to be Lucy," said Mrs. Honeychurch; "you must fall back on Lucy. There is no other way out of it. Lucy, go and change your frock."
Lucy's Sabbath was generally of this amphibious nature. She kept it without hypocrisy50 in the morning, and broke it without reluctance51 in the afternoon. As she changed her frock, she wondered whether Cecil was sneering at her; really she must overhaul herself and settle everything up before she married him.
Mr. Floyd was her partner. She liked music, but how much better tennis seemed. How much better to run about in comfortable clothes than to sit at the piano and feel girt under the arms. Once more music appeared to her the employment of a child. George served, and surprised her by his anxiety to win. She remembered how he had sighed among the tombs at Santa Croce because things wouldn't fit; how after the death of that obscure Italian he had leant over the parapet by the Arno and said to her: "I shall want to live, I tell you," He wanted to live now, to win at tennis, to stand for all he was worth in the sun--the sun which had begun to decline and was shining in her eyes; and he did win.
Ah, how beautiful the Weald looked! The hills stood out above its radiance, as Fiesole stands above the Tuscan Plain, and the South Downs, if one chose, were the mountains of Carrara. She might be forgetting her Italy, but she was noticing more things in her England. One could play a new game with the view, and try to find in its innumerable folds some town or village that would do for Florence. Ah, how beautiful the Weald looked!
But now Cecil claimed her. He chanced to be in a lucid52 critical mood, and would not sympathize with exaltation. He had been rather a nuisance all through the tennis, for the novel that he was reading was so bad that he was obliged to read it aloud to others. He would stroll round the precincts of the court and call out: "I say, listen to this, Lucy. Three split infinitives53."
"Dreadful!" said Lucy, and missed her stroke. When they had finished their set, he still went on reading; there was some murder scene, and really every one must listen to it. Freddy and Mr. Floyd were obliged to hunt for a lost ball in the laurels54, but the other two acquiesced55.
"The scene is laid in Florence."
"What fun, Cecil! Read away. Come, Mr. Emerson, sit down after all your energy." She had "forgiven" George, as she put it, and she made a point of being pleasant to him.
He jumped over the net and sat down at her feet asking: "You--and are you tired?"
"Of course I'm not!"
"Do you mind being beaten?"
She was going to answer, "No," when it struck her that she did mind, so she answered, "Yes." She added merrily, "I don't see you're such a splendid player, though. The light was behind you, and it was in my eyes."
"I never said I was."
"Why, you did!"
"You didn't attend."
"You said--oh, don't go in for accuracy at this house. We all exaggerate, and we get very angry with people who don't."
"'The scene is laid in Florence,'" repeated Cecil, with an upward note.
Lucy recollected56 herself.
"'Sunset. Leonora was speeding--'"
Lucy interrupted. "Leonora? Is Leonora the heroine? Who's the book by?"
"Joseph Emery Prank57. 'Sunset. Leonora speeding across the square. Pray the saints she might not arrive too late. Sunset--the sunset of Italy. Under Orcagna's Loggia--the Loggia de' Lanzi, as we sometimes call it now--'"
Lucy burst into laughter. "'Joseph Emery Prank' indeed! Why it's Miss Lavish58! It's Miss Lavish's novel, and she's publishing it under somebody else's name."
"Who may Miss Lavish be?"
"Oh, a dreadful person--Mr. Emerson, you remember Miss Lavish?"
Excited by her pleasant afternoon, she clapped her hands.
George looked up. "Of course I do. I saw her the day I arrived at Summer Street. It was she who told me that you lived here."
"Weren't you pleased?" She meant "to see Miss Lavish," but when he bent down to the grass without replying, it struck her that she could mean something else. She watched his head, which was almost resting against her knee, and she thought that the ears were reddening. "No wonder the novel's bad," she added. "I never liked Miss Lavish. But I suppose one ought to read it as one's met her."
"All modern books are bad," said Cecil, who was annoyed at her inattention, and vented59 his annoyance60 on literature. "Every one writes for money in these days."
"Oh, Cecil--!"
"It is so. I will inflict61 Joseph Emery Prank on you no longer."
Cecil, this afternoon seemed such a twittering sparrow. The ups and downs in his voice were noticeable, but they did not affect her. She had dwelt amongst melody and movement, and her nerves refused to answer to the clang of his. Leaving him to be annoyed, she gazed at the black head again. She did not want to stroke it, but she saw herself wanting to stroke it; the sensation was curious.
"How do you like this view of ours, Mr. Emerson?"
"I never notice much difference in views."
"What do you mean?"
"Because they're all alike. Because all that matters in them is distance and air."
"H'm!" said Cecil, uncertain whether the remark was striking or not.
"My father"--he looked up at her (and he was a little flushed)-- "says that there is only one perfect view--the view of the sky straight over our heads, and that all these views on earth are but bungled62 copies of it."
"I expect your father has been reading Dante," said Cecil, fingering the novel, which alone permitted him to lead the conversation.
"He told us another day that views are really crowds--crowds of trees and houses and hills--and are bound to resemble each other, like human crowds--and that the power they have over us is sometimes supernatural, for the same reason."
Lucy's lips parted.
"For a crowd is more than the people who make it up. Something gets added to it--no one knows how--just as something has got added to those hills."
He pointed28 with his racquet to the South Downs.
"What a splendid idea!" she murmured. "I shall enjoy hearing your father talk again. I'm so sorry he's not so well."
"No, he isn't well."
"There's an absurd account of a view in this book," said Cecil. "Also that men fall into two classes--those who forget views and those who remember them, even in small rooms."
"Mr. Emerson, have you any brothers or sisters?"
"None. Why?"
"My mother, I was meaning."
Cecil closed the novel with a bang.
"Oh, Cecil--how you made me jump!"
"I will inflict Joseph Emery Prank on you no longer."
"I can just remember us all three going into the country for the day and seeing as far as Hindhead. It is the first thing that I remember."
Cecil got up; the man was ill-bred--he hadn't put on his coat after tennis--he didn't do. He would have strolled away if Lucy had not stopped him.
"Cecil, do read the thing about the view."
"Not while Mr. Emerson is here to entertain us."
"No--read away. I think nothing's funnier than to hear silly things read out loud. If Mr. Emerson thinks us frivolous63, he can go."
This struck Cecil as subtle, and pleased him. It put their visitor in the position of a prig. Somewhat mollified, he sat down again.
"Mr. Emerson, go and find tennis balls." She opened the book. Cecil must have his reading and anything else that he liked. But her attention wandered to George's mother, who--according to Mr. Eager--had been murdered in the sight of God according to her son--had seen as far as Hindhead.
"Am I really to go?" asked George.
"No, of course not really," she answered.
"Chapter two," said Cecil, yawning. "Find me chapter two, if it isn't bothering you."
Chapter two was found, and she glanced at its opening sentences.
She thought she had gone mad.
"Here--hand me the book."
She heard her voice saying: "It isn't worth reading--it's too silly to read--I never saw such rubbish--it oughtn't to be allowed to be printed."
He took the book from her.
"'Leonora,'" he read, "'sat pensive64 and alone. Before her lay the rich champaign of Tuscany, dotted over with many a smiling village. The season was spring.'"
Miss Lavish knew, somehow, and had printed the past in draggled prose, for Cecil to read and for George to hear.
"'A golden haze,'" he read. He read: "'Afar off the towers of Florence, while the bank on which she sat was carpeted with violets. All unobserved Antonio stole up behind her--'"
Lest Cecil should see her face she turned to George and saw his face.
He read: "'There came from his lips no wordy protestation such as formal lovers use. No eloquence65 was his, nor did he suffer from the lack of it. He simply enfolded her in his manly66 arms.'"
"This isn't the passage I wanted," he informed them. "there is another much funnier, further on." He turned over the leaves.
"Should we go in to tea?" said Lucy, whose voice remained steady.
She led the way up the garden, Cecil following her, George last. She thought a disaster was averted67. But when they entered the shrubbery it came. The book, as if it had not worked mischief68 enough, had been forgotten, and Cecil must go back for it; and George, who loved passionately69, must blunder against her in the narrow path.
"No--" she gasped70, and, for the second time, was kissed by him.
As if no more was possible, he slipped back; Cecil rejoined her; they reached the upper lawn alone.
巴特利特小姐到来后的那个星期天是个阳光灿烂的日子，像那一年的大多数日子一样。在威尔德地区，秋天已逼近，打破了夏天的单一的绿色，公园里蒙上了一层灰色的薄雾，山毛榉树呈现赤褐色，栎树则被装点成金色。在高地上，一片片发黑的松树目睹了这些变化，但是本身却依然故我。不管是夏天还是秋天，乡间总是晴空万里，而不管是夏天还是秋天，教堂里都传出叮叮当当的钟声。
此刻风角的花园空荡荡的，只有一本红封面的书躺在沙砾小路上晒太阳。屋子里断断续续地传出各种声音，原来是妇女们在准备去教堂。“先生们说他们不去”——“唔，我可不怪他们”——“明妮问她一定得去吗？”——“告诉她，不要胡闹”——“安妮！玛丽！帮我把背后的搭扣钩好！”——“最亲爱的露西亚，我可以麻烦你给我一只别针吗？”这是因为巴特利特小姐已宣布她无论如何足去教堂中的一个。
太阳在它的运行途中愈升愈高，引导它前进的不是法厄同，而是阿波罗（译注：阿波罗，希腊罗马神话中主管阳光、智慧、音乐、诗歌、医药、预言、男性美的神；即太阳神），阳光神圣而强烈，不偏不倚。每当女士们走向卧室的窗前，太阳的光线便照射在她们的身上；也照射在下面夏街上的毕比先生身上，他正笑容满面地读着凯瑟琳·艾伦小姐的来信；也照射在乔治·艾默森身上，他正在替他父亲擦皮靴；最后，也照射在先前提到过的那本红书上，这样值得记叙的大事便全部记录在案了。女士们移动身子，毕比先生移动身子，乔治移动身子，而移动就可能会产生阴影。但是那本书却躺在那里动也不动，整个上午都接受阳光的爱抚，它的封面微微翘起，似乎在对阳光的爱抚表示感谢。
过了一会儿，露西从客厅的落地长窗里走出来。她穿的那身樱桃色的新衣裙并不生色，使她看上去俗艳而无血色。她脖子前别了一只石榴红的别针，手指上戴了一个镶了好几块红宝石的戒指——她的订婚戒。她的眼睛望着威尔德地区。她眉毛微蹙——倒不是在生气，而是像一个勇敢的孩子竭力忍住不哭时的样子。在那一大片空旷的土地上，没有眼睛注视着她，她尽可以皱眉，没有人会指责她，并且还可以打量阿波罗与西边山峦之间的那段空间。
“露西！露西！那是本什么书？谁从书架上拿了书，把它扔在那里，听凭它给弄脏？”
“只不过是塞西尔一直在看的那本从图书馆借来的书。”
“不过还是把它捡起来吧，不要站在那里什么事也不干，像一只红鹳那样。”
露西把书捡了起来，无精打采地朝书名看了一眼：《凉廊下》。她现在不再看小说了，把所有的空暇时间都用来阅读严肃的文学专著，希望能赶上塞西尔。真是可怕，她的知识十分有限，甚至她自以为知道的东西，像意大利画家，她发现也已忘得一干二净。就在今天早晨，她还把弗朗切斯科‘弗朗切亚与皮埃罗·德拉·弗朗切斯卡搞混了，塞西尔就说，“什么！难道你已经把你的意大利忘记了不成？”这也使她的目光中增添焦虑的神色，这时她正怀着敬意注视着面前的使她感到非常亲切的景色和花园，还有上空那很难想象会出现在别处的、使她感到非常亲切的太阳。
“露西——你有没有一枚六便士的硬币可以给明妮，一枚一先令的硬币给你自己用？”
她赶紧进屋向她的母亲走去，霍尼彻奇太太正慌慌张张地忙得团团转，她星期天总是这样的。
“这是一次特别捐献——我忘记为了什么了。我请求你们不要用半便士的小钱，弄得在盘子里叮叮当当响得多么讨厌；一定要让明妮有一枚干干净净、银光闪闪的六便士硬币。这孩子到哪里去了？明妮！瞧那本书给弄得完全变了形。（天哪，你看上去多平淡啊！）把书压在地图册下面吧。明妮！”
“嗳，霍尼彻奇太太——”从花园的高处传来了声音。
“明妮，别迟到。马儿来了。”——她总是说马儿，从来不说马车。“夏绿蒂在哪儿？跑去叫她快点来。她为什么这样慢？其实她也没有什么事要做啊。她老是什么也不带，只带衬衫来。可怜的夏绿蒂一我多讨厌衬衫啊！明妮！”
不信教像是一种传染病——比白喉或笃信宗教更厉害——于是这教区长的侄女被带到教堂去，她呢，连声抗议着。她像平常一样，不明白为什么要去教堂。为什么不能和青年男士一起坐着晒太阳呢？那两个青年男士现在走出来了，用不客气的话讥笑她。霍尼彻奇太太为正统的信仰辩护，就在这一片忙乱中，巴特利特小姐打扮得非常时髦，从楼梯上款款而下。
“亲爱的玛丽安，非常对不起，我没有零钱——只有金镑和两先令半的硬币。有没有人能给我——”
“有，而且很容易。上来吧。天啊，你打扮得漂亮极了。这身连衣裙真好看！你使我们全都黯然失色了。”
“要是我现在还不穿我的那些最讲究的破烂货，那么还有什么时候穿呢？”巴特利特小姐带着责问的口气说。她登上双座四轮敞篷马车，背对着马儿坐好。接着是一番必然会有的喧闹，她们便上路了。
“再见！好生去吧！”塞西尔叫道。
露西咬了咬嘴唇，因为他的语调带着讥讽的意味。关于“上教堂和诸如此类的事情”的话题，他们曾经有过一番难以令人满意的谈话。他说过人应该自我检查，可是她不想检查自己；她也不知道如何来进行。塞西尔对真诚的正统信仰是尊重的，不过一直认为真诚是精神危机的产物；他无法想象真诚是人生来就有的天赋权利，会像花树一样向天空伸展。他有关这一话题说的所有的话刺痛了她，虽然他的每一个毛孔都散发出宽容来；然而不知为什么艾默森父子就是不一样。
做完礼拜以后，她看到了艾默森父子。马车在路上排成了一行，霍尼彻奇家的马车碰巧就停在希西别墅对面。她们为了节约时间，就从草地上走过去乘车，碰到这爷儿俩正在花园里吸烟。
“给我介绍一下，”她母亲说。“除非那年轻人认为他已经认得我了。”
很可能他认得她；但是露西不管神圣湖的那番经历，正式为他们作了介绍。老艾默森先生很热情地同她打招呼，说他很高兴她将要结婚。她说是的，她也很高兴；那时，巴特利特小姐和明妮与毕比先生一起留在后面，露西便把谈话转到一个不那么叫人不安的话题上来，问他是否喜欢他的新居。
“很喜欢，”他回答，不过他的话音里包含着一点不痛快，她可从没看到他不痛快过。他接着说，“不过我们发现两位艾伦小姐原来打算来住，而我们把她们赶走了。女人家对这类事情是很在乎的。为此我感到十分心烦。”
“我想这里面有点误会，”霍尼彻奇太太不安地说。
“有人对房东说我们是另外一种人，”乔治说，似乎存心把这问题深入下去。“他以为我们很懂艺术。他失望了。”
“我不知道我们是否应该写信给两位艾伦小姐，主动把房子让出来。你觉得怎么样？”他向露西提出这一问题。
“哦，既来之，则安之吧，”露西轻松地说。她必须避免责怪塞西尔。因为这幕小插曲的矛头直指塞西尔，虽然从来也没有提到过他的名字。
“乔治也是这样说的。他说两位艾伦小姐只好让位了。然而这好像太残酷了。”
“世界上的仁慈是有限的，”乔治说，望着太阳光照在往来车辆的镶板上闪闪发亮。
“可不是！”霍尼彻奇太太嚷道。”我正是这样说的。何必为这两位艾伦小姐花费那么多的口舌呢？”
“仁慈是有限的，正如太阳光也是有限的，”他继续用有节奏的语调说。“无论我们站在什么地方，总会在某一样物体E投下阴影．为了保护物体而变换地方是没有用的，因为阴影总会跟踪而来。因此，还是选择一块不会损害别人的地方——是的，选择一块不会损害别人太多的地方，然后尽最大的努力站在那里，面对阳光。”
“哎呀，艾默森先生。我看得出你很聪明！”
“呃——？”
“我看得出你会变得很聪明的。我希望你以前没有那样对待过可怜的弗雷迪。”
乔治的眼睛露出笑意，露西心想他和她妈妈会相处得很好的。
“是的，我没有，”他说。“倒是他那样对待过我。这是他的处世哲学。只不过他根据它来开始生活，而我却先采用个大问号来开始。”
“你这是什么意思？不，不用管它你是什么意思。不用解释了。他盼着今天下午跟你会面呢。你打网球吗？星期天打网球你介意吗--？”
“乔治会介意在星期天打网球！乔治受过那种教育，还会区分星期天和——”
“很好，星期天打网球乔治不介意。我也同样不介意。那就说定了。艾默森先生，要是你能和令郎一起来，我们将感到不胜荣幸。”
他谢谢她，但听上去这段路走起来很长。这些天来，他只能稍微走动走动。
她转过去对乔治说，“而他却要把房子让给那两位艾伦小姐。”
“我知道，”乔治说，伸手钩住他父亲的脖子。毕比先生和露西一向知道他这个人心肠好，这份好心肠突然迸发出来，像太阳光照在一片茫茫的景色上——是些许朝阳的光芒吗？她想起来，尽管他古怪得很，他却从来没有讲过反对感情的话。
巴特利特小姐在走过来。
“你认识我们的表亲巴特利特小姐吧，”霍尼彻奇太太高兴地说。“你在佛罗伦萨见到过她和我的女儿在一起的。”
“一点不错！”老人说，看样子似乎要走到花园外面去迎接这位女士。巴特利特小姐迅速跨上马车。这样处在马车的保护之中，她按照礼节鞠了一躬。像是回到了贝尔托利尼公寓，餐桌上放着瓶装的水和葡萄酒。正是很久以前为了那间看得见风景的房间的那场争论。
乔治没有还礼。他和一般男孩子没什么两样，涨红了脸，感到羞愧；他很清楚这位监护人记得曾经发生的事。他说，“我——我会来打网球的，要是抽得出空的话，”说罢就进屋去了。也许他无论怎样做都能讨露西的欢心，可是他的别扭样子却径直地刺痛了她的心：男人毕竟不是神，而是像女孩子一样，也有人性，也有笨手笨脚的时候；即使男人也会为没有表达的情欲感到痛苦，也会需要帮助。对受过像她那样教养、具有像她那样人生目标的人说来，男人也有弱点是一个陌生的事实，不过在佛罗伦萨乔治把她的那些图片投入阿诺河里时，她已猜到了这一点。
“乔治，别走，”他父亲说，这老人认为他的儿子和别人说话将会使别人大为高兴。“乔治今天情绪非常好，我相信他今天下午终究会上你家去的。”
露西看到了她表姐的眼色。这眼色中不用语言表达的恳求所包含的某种东西使得她变得什么都顾不得了。“好啊，”她提高了嗓门说，“我真希望他能够来。”接着她走到马车边，喃喃地说，“他没有告诉老人那回事；我知道不会有问题的。”霍尼彻奇太太跟着她上了车，她们乘车走了。
露西很满意，因为艾默森先生不知道那次在佛罗伦萨的越轨行为；然而她的兴致也不应该一下子提得那么高，仿佛已看到了天堂的护墙一般。她很满意；然而她对待这件事肯定有点大喜过望。在回家的路上，马蹄对她唱起了如下的调子：“他没有对人说，他没有对人说。”她的大脑把这曲调扩展为：“他没有对他爸爸说——虽然他是什么都对爸爸说的。这不是一次冒险行动。我离开后，他并没有笑话我。”她伸手去摸脸颊。“他并不爱我。是的。要是当时他真的爱我，那该多么可怕呀！不过他没有对人说。他不会对人说的。”
她巴不得大声叫喊：“没有问题。这将永远是我们俩之间的秘密。塞西尔永远也不会知道。”她甚至庆幸，在佛罗伦萨最后的那个阴暗的傍晚，她和巴特利特小姐跪在他房间的地板上收拾行李时，巴特利特小姐要她答应保守秘密。这一秘密，不管是大还是小，总算保住了。在这个世界上只有三个英国人知道这个秘密。
她就是这样来理解她的喜悦的。在和塞西尔招呼时，她的容光特别焕发，因为感到十分安全。他扶她下车时，她说：“艾默森父子俩非常客气。乔治·艾默森大有好转。”
“哦，我的那些被保护人怎么样了？”塞西尔问，其实对他们并不真正感到兴趣，早已忘却了当初决心把他们带到凤角来是为了让他们受受教育。
“被保护人！”她嚷道，有一点激动。
因为塞西尔脑海里所设想的唯一的人际关系就是封建的关系：保护人与被保护人的关系。他根本看不到露西的心灵所渴望的同志之谊。
“你可以亲眼看看你的被保护人怎么样了。今天下午乔治·艾默森要来。和他这个人讲话非常有趣。只是你不要——”她几乎说出“你不要去保护他”。可是午饭的铃声响了，塞西尔没有好好仔细听她说的话，这情况是常常发生的。她的长处应该是妩媚，而不是辩论。
这顿午餐吃得很愉快。通常露西在吃饭时很压抑。因为她总是需要安慰某个人——不是塞西尔就是巴特利特小姐，再不然是一位凡人看不见的神——这位神正同她的心灵轻轻说着：“这种欢乐情绪是不会持久的。明年一月你必须到伦敦去款待名人的孙儿孙女啦。”可是今天她觉得她获得了一种保证。她的妈妈总会坐在那个座位上，她的弟弟坐在这边。太阳虽然从早晨开始移动了一点儿，但是决不会被西边的山峦挡住。吃完了午饭，他们请她弹琴。那一年她看过格鲁克（译注：格鲁克（1714-1787），德国作曲家，一生创作歌剧百部以上，《阿尔米德》为五幕歌剧。1777年初演于巴黎）的《阿尔米德》，便凭记忆弹奏了魔园那一场的音乐——雷诺（译注：雷诺为该歌剧中的男主人公，为一信基督教的骑士，对异教徒女王阿尔米德由恨转为爱，闯进她所在的魔园）在永恒的曙光照耀下，合着音乐的节拍走向前来，乐声既没有转强，也没有变弱，而是像仙境中的海水，只有微波起伏，没有大起大落的潮汐。这样的音乐段子不适合弹钢琴，因此听众开始有些焦躁不安，塞西尔也感到不满意，便叫喊道，“现在给我们弹另一个花园——《帕西发尔》（译注：《帕西发尔》为瓦格纳创作的三幕歌剧。主人公山村少年帕西发尔为了取得圣矛，闯入妖术士的魔园）里的花园的段子吧！”
她阖上了琴盖。
“这样不太尽责吧，”她母亲的声音说。
她生怕得罪了塞西尔，便迅速转过身来。咦，乔治就站在那里。他悄悄地溜了进来，没有打断她的演奏。
“哎呀，真没有想到！”她大声说，面孔涨得通红；接着t她没有和乔治打招呼，就重新打开了钢琴。塞西尔应该听到《帕西发尔》，还有他喜欢听的任何其他乐曲。
“我们的演奏家改变主意了，”巴特利特小姐说，这句话也许还包含了“她将弹给艾默森先生听”这层意思。露西不知怎么做才好，甚至不知道她自己想做什么。她弹了那支“百花仙女”唱的歌曲的几小节，弹得很糟糕，便停了下来。
“我提议去打网球，”弗雷迪说，对这样七拼八凑的余兴节目感到厌恶。
“很好，我也提议去打网球。”她又一次阖上了那架不走运的钢琴。“我提议你们来个男子双打。”
“好吧。”
“谢谢，我不参加，”塞西尔说。“我不想破坏你们的双打。”他根本没想到一个人球虽然打得不好，但在三缺一的情况下凑一脚是桩讨人喜欢的举动。
“啊，来吧，塞西尔。我打得不好，弗洛伊德也很糟糕，而且我敢说艾默森也是这样。”
乔治纠正他：“我打得并不不好。”
这样说话人们是会嗤之以鼻的。“那我当然不便打啰，”塞西尔说，而巴特利特小姐却以为他故意冷淡乔治，便接着说，“我和你的看法一样，维斯先生。你还是不打为妙。不打要好得多。”
明妮闯进了塞西尔不敢落脚的所在，向大家说她愿意打。“反正我每只球都接不住．所以有什么关系呢？”可是因为是星期天，不宜玩耍，这个好心的建议便遭到了沉重的打击。
“那么只好露西上场了，”霍尼彻奇太太说，“你们非得求露西不可了。没有其他的办法啊。露西，去换下你的裙子吧。”
一般说来，露西的安息日具有这样的双重性。早晨她遵守安息日，这可并不是假冒为善，但下午就不遵守了，也不觉得勉强。在她换裙子时，她怀疑塞西尔是否在讥笑她；她和塞西尔结婚前，确实必须彻底反省自己，把一切事情了结。
弗洛伊德先生与她搭档。她喜爱音乐，然而网球看来要好得多。穿着宽松舒适的衣服在球场上奔跑的感觉，比坐在钢琴前感到腋下束得紧紧的好多了。她又一次感到音乐只是一种儿戏。乔治发球，因为迫切希望赢球，使她猝不及防。她想起他在圣克罗彻的坟墓间徘徊，如何叹息不已，因为世事难如人意；在那个无名的意大利人死后，他靠在阿诺河边的矮墙上对她说：“告诉你，我希望活下去。”他现在希望活下去，希望赢球，希望站在阳光里使出浑身解数——站在阳光里，这阳光开始西斜，照得她眼睛也睁不开；而他果真赢了。
威尔德地区看上去多美啊！群山矗立在一片光辉中，犹如菲耶索莱耸立在托斯卡纳区的平原上，而如果你愿意，也可以把南丘（译注：南丘，英格兰南部的丘陵地带）当作卡拉拉（译注：卡拉拉，意大利西北部一演海地区，位于佛罗伦萨的西北）地区的山峦。她也许对意大利已有所淡忘，但是对她的英格兰却不断有新的发现。你可以把景色做一种新的游戏，试图在它数不清的重重叠叠山峦中找到某个小镇或村落．把它当作佛罗伦萨。威尔德地区看上去多美啊！
然而这时塞西尔叫她了。他碰巧这时思路清晰，很想挑错儿，对别人的兴高采烈并无好感。在打网球的整个过程中，他成了一个讨厌鬼，原来他在看的那本小说写得很糟，他感到非念给大家听不可。他就在网球场周围走来走去，大声嚷叫：“我说，露西，听听这一句。竟然用了三个分裂不定式①（译注：①分裂不定式，指在to和动词之间插入副词的不定式）。”“太糟糕了！”露西说，一只球就扑了空。那盘球打完后，他还在念；有一段写到谋杀场面，真的大家不可不听。弗雷迪和弗洛伊德先生不得不到月桂树下去寻找一只不见了的球，但其余两个人默然同意了。
“地点是在佛罗伦萨。”
“真有意思，塞西尔！念下去吧。来，艾默森先生，打球用了那么多力气，快坐下吧。”拿她的话来说，她已“原谅了”乔治，便有意显得对他和气。
他一跃过网，在她的脚边坐下，问：“你——你累了吗？”
“我当然不累！”
“你输球在乎吗？”
她本想说“不在乎”，可是忽然感到她的确在乎，因此回答道“是的”。接着她乐呵呵地说：“不过我并不认为你是位高手。太阳光在你后面，但是直照着我的眼睛。”
“我从没说过我是高手啊。”
“嗐，你说过的。”
“你当时没有好好听。”
“你说过——哦，在这个家里可不作兴过分顶真的。我们都喜欢夸大其词，谁要是不这样，我们就要大大地生气。”
“地点是在佛罗伦萨，”塞西尔声调转高，又说了一遍。
露西使自己镇定下来。
“夕阳西下。利奥诺拉正快步--”
露西打断了他。“利奥诺拉？她是女主人公吗？这本书是谁写的？”
“约瑟夫‘艾默里’普兰克写的。‘夕阳西下。利奥诺拉正快步穿过广场。她祈求众圣不要太晚到达那里。夕阳西下——意大利夕阳西下。在奥卡涅（译注：奥卡涅（约1308-约1368），意大利佛罗伦萨的画家、雕刻家、建筑师。这座朗齐凉廊据说是他设计的。实际上是他去世后不久由别人建造的）的凉廊——就是我们现在有时称做朗齐凉廊的下面——”’
露西爆发出一阵笑声。“是‘约瑟夫·艾默里·普兰克．！噢，那是拉维希小姐！原来是拉维希小姐写的小说；是用别人的名字出版的。”
“拉维希小姐是谁啊？”
“哦，一个可怕的人—一艾默森先生，你还记得拉维希小姐吗？”因为下午过得很愉快，她相当兴奋，竟然拍起手来。
乔治抬头看了看。“当然记得。我到夏街那天就看到了她。是她告诉我你住在这里的。”
“你不高兴吗？”她指的是一“看到了拉维希小姐”，不过他低下头去望着草地，没有回答，这使露西突然发觉她这句话可以指其他意思。他的头几乎靠着她的膝盖，她望着他的头，认为他的耳朵正在一点点地红起来。“怪不得这本书这么糟糕，”她又说。“我一向讨厌拉维希小姐。不过我想我们既然和她有一面之交，还是应该读读这本书。”
“所有现代小说都很糟糕，”塞西尔说，对露西不够专心很恼火，便把一腔怒气都发泄在文学作品上。“今天，人人都在为金钱写作。”
“唉，塞西尔——！”
“．情况就是这样。我不再把约瑟夫·艾默里。普兰克强加给你们了。”
这天下午，塞西尔像只嘁嘁喳喳的麻雀，叫个不停。他的语调忽高忽低，是很引人注意的，但是对露西却没有影响。她一直生活在旋律与乐章里，她的神经对他发出的铿锵声毫无反应。她让他去着恼，又一次注视着那长着黑发的头。她并没有伸手去抚摸它，然而心里明白她很想去抚摸它；这种感觉是非常奇妙的。
“艾默森先生，你觉得我家的风景怎么样？”
“我向来不觉得风景有多大的差别。”
“你这是什么意思？”
“因为风景都是一样的。因为风景中最要紧的是距离和空气。”
塞西尔发出一声“哼！”他说不准这句话好不好算作惊人之语。
“我爸爸”——他抬眼望着她（他的脸有点发红）——“说只有一种景色是完美的——那就是我们头顶上的天空，而地上的所有景色都不过是粗制滥造的复制品。”
“我想你爸爸在读但丁（译注：但丁在《神曲》的《炼狱篇》和《天堂篇》中有和“粗制滥造的复制品”相类似的看法）吧，”塞西尔说，一面用手指摸弄着那本小说，只有谈论那本书塞西尔才最有发言权。
“有一天他对我们说景色实际上是一些群体一一群群树、房屋和山丘一它们必然彼此相像，就像一群群人那样——并且由于同样的原因，它们对我们具有某种超自然的吸引力。”
露西张开了双唇。
“因为人群不止是组成人群的人而已。它还包括一些附加的东西——没有人知道是怎么回事——就像群山还包括一些附加的东西一样。”
他用球拍指指南丘。
“多妙的想法啊！”她喃喃道。“我将会非常高兴听你爸爸再谈谈。真可惜他身体不太好。”
“是的，他身体不好。”
“这本书里有一段景色的描写真是荒唐，”塞西尔说。
“还有什么人可以分成两类——看到了风景会忘记的人和看到了风景不会忘记的人，即使在小房间里也是如此。”
“艾默森先生，你有兄弟姐妹吗？”
“一个也没有。怎么啦？”
“你刚才提起过‘我们’。”
“我指的是我妈妈。”
塞西尔砰的一声将书阖上。
“哎呀，塞西尔——你吓了我一大跳！”
“我不再把约瑟夫·艾默里·普兰克强加给你们了。”
“我仅仅记得我们三个曾一起到乡下去玩一天，一直游览到欣德黑德。这是我能回想起的第一件事。”
塞西尔站起身来：此人没有教养——打完网球也没有穿上上装——后来也没有穿。要不是露西拦住了他，他真想走开了。
“塞西尔，把那段景色描写念给我们听听。”
“有艾默森先生在这里为我们消遣解闷，我不念。”
“不——念下去吧。听到大声朗诵那些荒唐可笑的描写，是再有趣不过的事情了。要是艾默森先生认为我们很无聊，他可以离开。”
塞西尔觉得这句话讲得很巧妙，听了顶高兴。这句话使他们这位客人处于一种自命不凡的地位。他的恼怒多少有些平息了，便又坐了下来。
“艾默森先生，去寻找那些网球吧。”她打开了小说。一定要让塞西尔念那一段，还有他喜欢的其他段落。然而她的心思却转到了乔治的母亲身上——按照伊格先生的说法——在上帝的眼里，她是被谋杀的——可她的儿子说一她一直游览到欣德黑德。
“真要我走吗？”乔治问。
“不，当然不是真的，”她回答。
“第二章，”塞西尔说，一面在打呵欠。“替我翻到第二章，如果这不算太麻烦你的话。”
第二章翻到了，她的目光对头几行扫了一下。
她以为自己发疯了。
“拿来——把书给我。”
她听到自己的声音在说：“这本书不值一读——太荒唐了，简直看不下去一我从没见过这样糟糕的东西——根本不应该让它出版。”
他把书从她手中夺了过去。
“‘利奥诺拉，”’他念道，“‘一个人坐在那里，陷入了沉思。她面前伸展着富饶的塔斯卡纳平原，布满着不少喜气洋洋的村庄。正是春光明媚的季节。”’
不知怎的，拉维希小姐知道了这件事，并且用拖泥带水的文字把这段往事印了出来，让塞西尔念出来，让乔治听到。
…一片金色的迷雾，”’他念道，“‘远方是佛罗伦萨的塔楼，她坐着的堤岸上长满了紫罗兰。没有人看到这一切，安东尼奥悄悄地走到她的背后——”’
她生怕塞西尔看到她的脸，便转向乔治，她看到了他的脸。
他念道：…他的嘴里没有像正式的情人那样吐露绵绵情话。滔滔不绝的口才不属于他，他也没有因此而吃亏。他干脆用他的男子汉的手臂把她搂在怀里。”’
一阵静默。
“这不是我想念的那段，”他对他们说。“还有一段要有趣得多，就在后面。”他翻着书页。
“我们进去喝茶好吗？”露西说，声音仍然很镇定。
她率先向花园上方走去，塞西尔跟在她的后面，乔治走在最后。她想一场灾难总算躲过了。可是当他们走进灌木丛时，灾难降临了。那本书似乎捣蛋捣得还不够，被遗忘在原处，于是塞西尔一定要回去拿；而乔治这样爱情炽烈的人却偏偏要和她狭路相撞在一起。
“别这样——”她喘着气说，于是她第二次被他吻了。
似乎不可能作进一步的表示，他便悄悄地退了回去；塞西尔又和她在一起了；他们俩单独来到了草坪的上方。
收听单词发音 |
1
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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battalions
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| n.（陆军的）一营（大约有一千兵士）( battalion的名词复数 )；协同作战的部队；军队；（组织在一起工作的）队伍 | |
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tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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trespass
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| n./v.侵犯，闯入私人领地 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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engender
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| v.产生，引起 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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14
flamingo
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| n.红鹳，火烈鸟 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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fluster
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| adj.慌乱，狼狈，混乱，激动 | |
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warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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atlas
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| n.地图册，图表集 | |
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detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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overhaul
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| v./n.大修，仔细检查 | |
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exuded
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| v.缓慢流出，渗出，分泌出( exude的过去式和过去分词 )；流露出对（某物）的神态或感情 | |
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tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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censuring
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的现在分词 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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entrenched
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| adj.确立的，不容易改的(风俗习惯) | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forte
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| n.长处，擅长；adj.(音乐)强音的 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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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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45
wanes
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| v.衰落( wane的第三人称单数 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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restive
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| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
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48
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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49
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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50
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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51
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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53
infinitives
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| n.（动词）不定式( infinitive的名词复数 ) | |
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54
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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55
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
prank
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| n.开玩笑，恶作剧；v.装饰；打扮；炫耀自己 | |
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58
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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59
vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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61
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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62
bungled
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| v.搞糟，完不成( bungle的过去式和过去分词 )；笨手笨脚地做；失败；完不成 | |
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63
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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64
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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65
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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66
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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67
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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68
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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69
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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70
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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