They blessed the night, and curst the coming day.
Lee.
The burst of transport was past: Ambrosio’s lust1 was satisfied; Pleasure fled, and Shame usurped2 her seat in his bosom3. Confused and terrified at his weakness, He drew himself from Matilda’s arms. His perjury4 presented itself before him: He reflected on the scene which had just been acted, and trembled at the consequences of a discovery. He looked forward with horror; His heart was despondent5, and became the abode6 of satiety7 and disgust. He avoided the eyes of his Partner in frailty8; A melancholy9 silence prevailed, during which Both seemed busied with disagreable reflections.
Matilda was the first to break it. She took his hand gently, and pressed it to her burning lips.
‘Ambrosio!’ She murmured in a soft and trembling voice.
The Abbot started at the sound. He turned his eyes upon Matilda’s: They were filled with tears; Her cheeks were covered with blushes, and her supplicating11 looks seemed to solicit12 his compassion13.
‘Dangerous Woman!’ said He; ‘Into what an abyss of misery14 have you plunged15 me! Should your sex be discovered, my honour, nay16 my life, must pay for the pleasure of a few moments. Fool that I was, to trust myself to your seductions! What can now be done? How can my offence be expiated17? What atonement can purchase the pardon of my crime? Wretched Matilda, you have destroyed my quiet for ever!’
‘To me these reproaches, Ambrosio? To me, who have sacrificed for you the world’s pleasures, the luxury of wealth, the delicacy18 of sex, my Friends, my fortune, and my fame? What have you lost, which I preserved? Have _I_ not shared in YOUR guilt19? Have YOU not shared in MY pleasure? Guilt, did I say? In what consists ours, unless in the opinion of an ill-judging World? Let that World be ignorant of them, and our joys become divine and blameless! Unnatural20 were your vows21 of Celibacy23; Man was not created for such a state; And were Love a crime, God never would have made it so sweet, so irresistible24! Then banish25 those clouds from your brow, my Ambrosio! Indulge in those pleasures freely, without which life is a worthless gift: Cease to reproach me with having taught you what is bliss26, and feel equal transports with the Woman who adores you!’
As She spoke27, her eyes were filled with a delicious languor28. Her bosom panted: She twined her arms voluptuously29 round him, drew him towards her, and glewed her lips to his. Ambrosio again raged with desire: The die was thrown: His vows were already broken; He had already committed the crime, and why should He refrain from enjoying its reward? He clasped her to his breast with redoubled ardour. No longer repressed by the sense of shame, He gave a loose to his intemperate31 appetites. While the fair Wanton put every invention of lust in practice, every refinement32 in the art of pleasure which might heighten the bliss of her possession, and render her Lover’s transports still more exquisite33, Ambrosio rioted in delights till then unknown to him: Swift fled the night, and the Morning blushed to behold34 him still clasped in the embraces of Matilda.
Intoxicated35 with pleasure, the Monk36 rose from the Syren’s luxurious37 Couch. He no longer reflected with shame upon his incontinence, or dreaded39 the vengeance40 of offended heaven. His only fear was lest Death should rob him of enjoyments41, for which his long Fast had only given a keener edge to his appetite. Matilda was still under the influence of poison, and the voluptuous30 Monk trembled less for his Preserver’s life than his Concubine’s. Deprived of her, He would not easily find another Mistress with whom He could indulge his passions so fully43, and so safely. He therefore pressed her with earnestness to use the means of preservation44 which She had declared to be in her possession.
‘Yes!’ replied Matilda; ‘Since you have made me feel that Life is valuable, I will rescue mine at any rate. No dangers shall appall45 me: I will look upon the consequences of my action boldly, nor shudder46 at the horrors which they present. I will think my sacrifice scarcely worthy47 to purchase your possession, and remember that a moment past in your arms in this world o’er-pays an age of punishment in the next. But before I take this step, Ambrosio, give me your solemn oath never to enquire48 by what means I shall preserve myself.’
He did so in a manner the most binding49.
‘I thank you, my Beloved. This precaution is necessary, for though you know it not, you are under the command of vulgar prejudices: The Business on which I must be employed this night, might startle you from its singularity, and lower me in your opinion. Tell me; Are you possessed50 of the Key of the low door on the western side of the Garden?’
‘The Door which opens into the burying-ground common to us and the Sisterhood of St. Clare? I have not the Key, but can easily procure51 it.’
‘You have only this to do. Admit me into the burying-ground at midnight; Watch while I descend52 into the vaults53 of St. Clare, lest some prying54 eye should observe my actions; Leave me there alone for an hour, and that life is safe which I dedicate to your pleasures. To prevent creating suspicion, do not visit me during the day. Remember the Key, and that I expect you before twelve. Hark! I hear steps approaching! Leave me; I will pretend to sleep.’
The Friar obeyed, and left the Cell. As He opened the door, Father Pablos made his appearance.
‘I come,’ said the Latter, ‘to enquire after the health of my young Patient.’
‘Hush!’ replied Ambrosio, laying his finger upon his lip; ‘Speak softly; I am just come from him. He has fallen into a profound slumber55, which doubtless will be of service to him. Do not disturb him at present, for He wishes to repose57.’
Father Pablos obeyed, and hearing the Bell ring, accompanied the Abbot to Matins. Ambrosio felt embarrassed as He entered the Chapel58. Guilt was new to him, and He fancied that every eye could read the transactions of the night upon his countenance59. He strove to pray; His bosom no longer glowed with devotion; His thoughts insensibly wandered to Matilda’s secret charms. But what He wanted in purity of heart, He supplied by exterior60 sanctity. The better to cloak his transgression61, He redoubled his pretensions62 to the semblance63 of virtue64, and never appeared more devoted65 to Heaven as since He had broken through his engagements. Thus did He unconsciously add Hypocrisy66 to perjury and incontinence; He had fallen into the latter errors from yielding to seduction almost irresistible; But he was now guilty of a voluntary fault by endeavouring to conceal67 those into which Another had betrayed him.
The Matins concluded, Ambrosio retired68 to his Cell. The pleasures which He had just tasted for the first time were still impressed upon his mind. His brain was bewildered, and presented a confused Chaos69 of remorse70, voluptuousness71, inquietude, and fear. He looked back with regret to that peace of soul, that security of virtue, which till then had been his portion. He had indulged in excesses whose very idea but four and twenty hours before He had recoiled72 at with horror. He shuddered73 at reflecting that a trifling74 indiscretion on his part, or on Matilda’s, would overturn that fabric75 of reputation which it had cost him thirty years to erect76, and render him the abhorrence78 of that People of whom He was then the Idol79. Conscience painted to him in glaring colours his perjury and weakness; Apprehension80 magnified to him the horrors of punishment, and He already fancied himself in the prisons of the Inquisition. To these tormenting81 ideas succeeded Matilda’s beauty, and those delicious lessons which, once learnt, can never be forgotten. A single glance thrown upon these reconciled him with himself. He considered the pleasures of the former night to have been purchased at an easy price by the sacrifice of innocence82 and honour. Their very remembrance filled his soul with ecstacy; He cursed his foolish vanity, which had induced him to waste in obscurity the bloom of life, ignorant of the blessings83 of Love and Woman. He determined85 at all events to continue his commerce with Matilda, and called every argument to his aid which might confirm his resolution. He asked himself, provided his irregularity was unknown, in what would his fault consist, and what consequences He had to apprehend86? By adhering strictly87 to every rule of his order save Chastity, He doubted not to retain the esteem88 of Men, and even the protection of heaven. He trusted easily to be forgiven so slight and natural a deviation89 from his vows: But He forgot that having pronounced those vows, Incontinence, in Laymen90 the most venial91 of errors, became in his person the most heinous92 of crimes.
Once decided93 upon his future conduct, his mind became more easy. He threw himself upon his bed, and strove by sleeping to recruit his strength exhausted94 by his nocturnal excesses. He awoke refreshed, and eager for a repetition of his pleasures. Obedient to Matilda’s order, He visited not her Cell during the day. Father Pablos mentioned in the Refectory that Rosario had at length been prevailed upon to follow his prescription95; But that the medicine had not produced the slightest effect, and that He believed no mortal skill could rescue him from the Grave. With this opinion the Abbot agreed, and affected96 to lament97 the untimely fate of a Youth, whose talents had appeared so promising98.
The night arrived. Ambrosio had taken care to procure from the Porter the Key of the low door opening into the Cemetery99. Furnished with this, when all was silent in the Monastery100, He quitted his Cell, and hastened to Matilda’s. She had left her bed, and was drest before his arrival.
‘I have been expecting you with impatience101,’ said She; ‘My life depends upon these moments. Have you the Key?’
‘I have.’
‘Away then to the garden. We have no time to lose. Follow me!’
She took a small covered Basket from the Table. Bearing this in one hand, and the Lamp, which was flaming upon the Hearth102, in the other, She hastened from the Cell. Ambrosio followed her. Both maintained a profound silence. She moved on with quick but cautious steps, passed through the Cloisters103, and reached the Western side of the Garden. Her eyes flashed with a fire and wildness which impressed the Monk at once with awe105 and horror. A determined desperate courage reigned106 upon her brow. She gave the Lamp to Ambrosio; Then taking from him the Key, She unlocked the low Door, and entered the Cemetery. It was a vast and spacious107 Square planted with yew108 trees: Half of it belonged to the Abbey; The other half was the property of the Sisterhood of St. Clare, and was protected by a roof of Stone. The Division was marked by an iron railing, the wicket of which was generally left unlocked.
Thither109 Matilda bent110 her course. She opened the wicket and sought for the door leading to the subterraneous Vaults, where reposed111 the mouldering112 Bodies of the Votaries113 of St. Clare. The night was perfectly114 dark; Neither Moon or Stars were visible. Luckily there was not a breath of Wind, and the Friar bore his Lamp in full security: By the assistance of its beams, the door of the Sepulchre was soon discovered. It was sunk within the hollow of a wall, and almost concealed115 by thick festoons of ivy116 hanging over it. Three steps of rough-hewn Stone conducted to it, and Matilda was on the point of descending117 them when She suddenly started back.
‘There are People in the Vaults!’ She whispered to the Monk; ‘Conceal yourself till they are past.
She took refuge behind a lofty and magnificent Tomb, erected118 in honour of the Convent’s Foundress. Ambrosio followed her example, carefully hiding his Lamp lest its beams should betray them. But a few moments had elapsed when the Door was pushed open leading to the subterraneous Caverns120. Rays of light proceeded up the Staircase: They enabled the concealed Spectators to observe two Females drest in religious habits, who seemed engaged in earnest conversation. The Abbot had no difficulty to recognize the Prioress of St. Clare in the first, and one of the elder Nuns121 in her Companion.
‘Every thing is prepared,’ said the Prioress; ‘Her fate shall be decided tomorrow. All her tears and sighs will be unavailing. No! In five and twenty years that I have been Superior of this Convent, never did I witness a transaction more infamous123!’
‘You must expect much opposition124 to your will;’ the Other replied in a milder voice; ‘Agnes has many Friends in the Convent, and in particular the Mother St. Ursula will espouse125 her cause most warmly. In truth, She merits to have Friends; and I wish I could prevail upon you to consider her youth, and her peculiar126 situation. She seems sensible of her fault; The excess of her grief proves her penitence127, and I am convinced that her tears flow more from contrition128 than fear of punishment. Reverend Mother, would you be persuaded to mitigate129 the severity of your sentence, would you but deign130 to overlook this first transgression, I offer myself as the pledge of her future conduct.’
‘Overlook it, say you? Mother Camilla, you amaze me! What? After disgracing me in the presence of Madrid’s Idol, of the very Man on whom I most wished to impress an idea of the strictness of my discipline? How despicable must I have appeared to the reverend Abbot! No, Mother, No! I never can forgive the insult. I cannot better convince Ambrosio that I abhor77 such crimes, than by punishing that of Agnes with all the rigour of which our severe laws admit. Cease then your supplications; They will all be unavailing. My resolution is taken: Tomorrow Agnes shall be made a terrible example of my justice and resentment131.’
The Mother Camilla seemed not to give up the point, but by this time the Nuns were out of hearing. The Prioress unlocked the door which communicated with St. Clare’s Chapel, and having entered with her Companion, closed it again after them.
Matilda now asked, who was this Agnes with whom the Prioress was thus incensed132, and what connexion She could have with Ambrosio. He related her adventure; and He added, that since that time his ideas having undergone a thorough revolution, He now felt much compassion for the unfortunate Nun122.
‘I design,’ said He, ‘to request an audience of the Domina tomorrow, and use every means of obtaining a mitigation of her sentence.’
‘Beware of what you do!’ interrupted Matilda; ‘Your sudden change of sentiment may naturally create surprize, and may give birth to suspicions which it is most our interest to avoid. Rather, redouble your outward austerity, and thunder out menaces against the errors of others, the better to conceal your own. Abandon the Nun to her fate. Your interfering133 might be dangerous, and her imprudence merits to be punished: She is unworthy to enjoy Love’s pleasures, who has not wit enough to conceal them. But in discussing this trifling subject I waste moments which are precious. The night flies apace, and much must be done before morning. The Nuns are retired; All is safe. Give me the Lamp, Ambrosio. I must descend alone into these Caverns: Wait here, and if any one approaches, warn me by your voice; But as you value your existence, presume not to follow me. Your life would fall a victim to your imprudent curiosity.’
Thus saying She advanced towards the Sepulchre, still holding her Lamp in one hand, and her little Basket in the other. She touched the door: It turned slowly upon its grating hinges, and a narrow winding135 staircase of black marble presented itself to her eyes. She descended136 it. Ambrosio remained above, watching the faint beams of the Lamp as they still proceeded up the stairs. They disappeared, and He found himself in total darkness.
Left to himself He could not reflect without surprize on the sudden change in Matilda’s character and sentiments. But a few days had past since She appeared the mildest and softest of her sex, devoted to his will, and looking up to him as to a superior Being. Now She assumed a sort of courage and manliness137 in her manners and discourse138 but ill-calculated to please him. She spoke no longer to insinuate139, but command: He found himself unable to cope with her in argument, and was unwillingly140 obliged to confess the superiority of her judgment142. Every moment convinced him of the astonishing powers of her mind: But what She gained in the opinion of the Man, She lost with interest in the affection of the Lover. He regretted Rosario, the fond, the gentle, and submissive: He grieved that Matilda preferred the virtues143 of his sex to those of her own; and when He thought of her expressions respecting the devoted Nun, He could not help blaming them as cruel and unfeminine. Pity is a sentiment so natural, so appropriate to the female character, that it is scarcely a merit for a Woman to possess it, but to be without it is a grievous crime. Ambrosio could not easily forgive his Mistress for being deficient144 in this amiable145 quality. However, though he blamed her insensibility, He felt the truth of her observations; and though He pitied sincerely the unfortunate Agnes, He resolved to drop the idea of interposing in her behalf.
Near an hour had elapsed, since Matilda descended into the Caverns; Still She returned not. Ambrosio’s curiosity was excited. He drew near the Staircase. He listened. All was silent, except that at intervals146 He caught the sound of Matilda’s voice, as it wound along the subteraneous passages, and was re-echoed by the Sepulchre’s vaulted147 roofs. She was at too great a distance for him to distinguish her words, and ere they reached him they were deadened into a low murmur10. He longed to penetrate148 into this mystery. He resolved to disobey her injunctions and follow her into the Cavern119. He advanced to the Staircase; He had already descended some steps when his courage failed him. He remembered Matilda’s menaces if He infringed149 her orders, and his bosom was filled with a secret unaccountable awe. He returned up the stairs, resumed his former station, and waited impatiently for the conclusion of this adventure.
Suddenly He was sensible of a violent shock: An earthquake rocked the ground. The Columns which supported the roof under which He stood were so strongly shaken, that every moment menaced him with its fall, and at the same moment He heard a loud and tremendous burst of thunder. It ceased, and his eyes being fixed150 upon the Staircase, He saw a bright column of light flash along the Caverns beneath. It was seen but for an instant. No sooner did it disappear, than all was once more quiet and obscure. Profound Darkness again surrounded him, and the silence of night was only broken by the whirring Bat, as She flitted slowly by him.
With every instant Ambrosio’s amazement151 increased. Another hour elapsed, after which the same light again appeared and was lost again as suddenly. It was accompanied by a strain of sweet but solemn Music, which as it stole through the Vaults below, inspired the Monk with mingled152 delight and terror. It had not long been hushed, when He heard Matilda’s steps upon the Staircase. She ascended153 from the Cavern; The most lively joy animated154 her beautiful features.
‘Did you see any thing?’ She asked.
‘Twice I saw a column of light flash up the Staircase.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Nothing.’
‘The Morning is on the point of breaking. Let us retire to the Abbey, lest daylight should betray us.’
With a light step She hastened from the burying-ground. She regained155 her Cell, and the curious Abbot still accompanied her. She closed the door, and disembarrassed herself of her Lamp and Basket.
‘I have succeeded!’ She cried, throwing herself upon his bosom: ‘Succeeded beyond my fondest hopes! I shall live, Ambrosio, shall live for you! The step which I shuddered at taking proves to me a source of joys inexpressible! Oh! that I dared communicate those joys to you! Oh! that I were permitted to share with you my power, and raise you as high above the level of your sex, as one bold deed has exalted156 me above mine!’
‘And what prevents you, Matilda?’ interrupted the Friar; ‘Why is your business in the Cavern made a secret? Do you think me undeserving of your confidence? Matilda, I must doubt the truth of your affection, while you have joys in which I am forbidden to share.’
‘You reproach me with injustice158. I grieve sincerely that I am obliged to conceal from you my happiness. But I am not to blame: The fault lies not in me, but in yourself, my Ambrosio! You are still too much the Monk. Your mind is enslaved by the prejudices of Education; And Superstition159 might make you shudder at the idea of that which experience has taught me to prize and value. At present you are unfit to be trusted with a secret of such importance: But the strength of your judgment; and the curiosity which I rejoice to see sparkling in your eyes, makes me hope that you will one day deserve my confidence. Till that period arrives, restrain your impatience. Remember that you have given me your solemn oath never to enquire into this night’s adventures. I insist upon your keeping this oath: For though’ She added smiling, while She sealed his lips with a wanton kiss; ‘Though I forgive your breaking your vows to heaven, I expect you to keep your vows to me.’
The Friar returned the embrace which had set his blood on fire. The luxurious and unbounded excesses of the former night were renewed, and they separated not till the Bell rang for Matins.
The same pleasures were frequently repeated. The Monks160 rejoiced in the feigned161 Rosario’s unexpected recovery, and none of them suspected his real sex. The Abbot possessed his Mistress in tranquillity162, and perceiving his frailty unsuspected, abandoned himself to his passions in full security. Shame and remorse no longer tormented164 him. Frequent repetitions made him familiar with sin, and his bosom became proof against the stings of Conscience. In these sentiments He was encouraged by Matilda; But She soon was aware that She had satiated her Lover by the unbounded freedom of her caresses165. Her charms becoming accustomed to him, they ceased to excite the same desires which at first they had inspired. The delirium166 of passion being past, He had leisure to observe every trifling defect: Where none were to be found, Satiety made him fancy them. The Monk was glutted167 with the fullness of pleasure: A Week had scarcely elapsed before He was wearied of his Paramour: His warm constitution still made him seek in her arms the gratification of his lust: But when the moment of passion was over, He quitted her with disgust, and his humour, naturally inconstant, made him sigh impatiently for variety.
Possession, which cloys168 Man, only increases the affection of Woman. Matilda with every succeeding day grew more attached to the Friar. Since He had obtained her favours, He was become dearer to her than ever, and She felt grateful to him for the pleasures in which they had equally been Sharers. Unfortunately as her passion grew ardent169, Ambrosio’s grew cold; The very marks of her fondness excited his disgust, and its excess served to extinguish the flame which already burned but feebly in his bosom. Matilda could not but remark that her society seemed to him daily less agreeable: He was inattentive while She spoke: her musical talents, which She possessed in perfection, had lost the power of amusing him; Or if He deigned170 to praise them, his compliments were evidently forced and cold. He no longer gazed upon her with affection, or applauded her sentiments with a Lover’s partiality. This Matilda well perceived, and redoubled her efforts to revive those sentiments which He once had felt. She could not but fail, since He considered as importunities the pains which She took to please him, and was disgusted by the very means which She used to recall the Wanderer. Still, however, their illicit171 Commerce continued: But it was clear that He was led to her arms, not by love, but the cravings of brutal172 appetite. His constitution made a Woman necessary to him, and Matilda was the only one with whom He could indulge his passions safely: In spite of her beauty, He gazed upon every other Female with more desire; But fearing that his Hypocrisy should be made public, He confined his inclinations173 to his own breast.
It was by no means his nature to be timid: But his education had impressed his mind with fear so strongly, that apprehension was now become part of his character. Had his Youth been passed in the world, He would have shown himself possessed of many brilliant and manly174 qualities. He was naturally enterprizing, firm, and fearless: He had a Warrior’s heart, and He might have shone with splendour at the head of an Army. There was no want of generosity175 in his nature: The Wretched never failed to find in him a compassionate176 Auditor177: His abilities were quick and shining, and his judgment, vast, solid, and decisive. With such qualifications He would have been an ornament178 to his Country: That He possessed them, He had given proofs in his earliest infancy179, and his Parents had beheld180 his dawning virtues with the fondest delight and admiration181. Unfortunately, while yet a Child He was deprived of those Parents. He fell into the power of a Relation whose only wish about him was never to hear of him more; For that purpose He gave him in charge to his Friend, the former Superior of the Capuchins. The Abbot, a very Monk, used all his endeavours to persuade the Boy that happiness existed not without the walls of a Convent. He succeeded fully. To deserve admittance into the order of St. Francis was Ambrosio’s highest ambition. His Instructors182 carefully repressed those virtues whose grandeur183 and disinterestedness184 were ill-suited to the Cloister104. Instead of universal benevolence185, He adopted a selfish partiality for his own particular establishment: He was taught to consider compassion for the errors of Others as a crime of the blackest dye: The noble frankness of his temper was exchanged for servile humility186; and in order to break his natural spirit, the Monks terrified his young mind by placing before him all the horrors with which Superstition could furnish them: They painted to him the torments187 of the Damned in colours the most dark, terrible, and fantastic, and threatened him at the slightest fault with eternal perdition. No wonder that his imagination constantly dwelling188 upon these fearful objects should have rendered his character timid and apprehensive189. Add to this, that his long absence from the great world, and total unacquaintance with the common dangers of life, made him form of them an idea far more dismal190 than the reality. While the Monks were busied in rooting out his virtues and narrowing his sentiments, they allowed every vice56 which had fallen to his share to arrive at full perfection. He was suffered to be proud, vain, ambitious, and disdainful: He was jealous of his Equals, and despised all merit but his own: He was implacable when offended, and cruel in his revenge. Still in spite of the pains taken to pervert191 them, his natural good qualities would occasionally break through the gloom cast over them so carefully:
At such times the contest for superiority between his real and acquired character was striking and unaccountable to those unacquainted with his original disposition192. He pronounced the most severe sentences upon Offenders193, which, the moment after, Compassion induced him to mitigate: He undertook the most daring enterprizes, which the fear of their consequences soon obliged him to abandon: His inborn194 genius darted195 a brilliant light upon subjects the most obscure; and almost instantaneously his Superstition replunged them in darkness more profound than that from which they had just been rescued. His Brother Monks, regarding him as a Superior Being, remarked not this contradiction in their Idol’s conduct. They were persuaded that what He did must be right, and supposed him to have good reasons for changing his resolutions. The fact was, that the different sentiments with which Education and Nature had inspired him were combating in his bosom: It remained for his passions, which as yet no opportunity had called into play, to decide the victory. Unfortunately his passions were the very worst Judges, to whom He could possibly have applied196. His monastic seclusion197 had till now been in his favour, since it gave him no room for discovering his bad qualities. The superiority of his talents raised him too far above his Companions to permit his being jealous of them: His exemplary piety198, persuasive199 eloquence200, and pleasing manners had secured him universal Esteem, and consequently He had no injuries to revenge: His Ambition was justified201 by his acknowledged merit, and his pride considered as no more than proper confidence. He never saw, much less conversed202 with, the other sex: He was ignorant of the pleasures in Woman’s power to bestow203, and if He read in the course of his studies
‘That Men were fond, He smiled, and wondered how!’
For a time, spare diet, frequent watching, and severe penance204 cooled and represt the natural warmth of his constitution: But no sooner did opportunity present itself, no sooner did He catch a glimpse of joys to which He was still a Stranger, than Religion’s barriers were too feeble to resist the overwhelming torrent205 of his desires. All impediments yielded before the force of his temperament206, warm, sanguine207, and voluptuous in the excess.
As yet his other passions lay dormant208; But they only needed to be once awakened209, to display themselves with violence as great and irresistible.
He continued to be the admiration of Madrid. The Enthusiasm created by his eloquence seemed rather to increase than diminish.
Every Thursday, which was the only day when He appeared in public, the Capuchin Cathedral was crowded with Auditors210, and his discourse was always received with the same approbation211. He was named Confessor to all the chief families in Madrid; and no one was counted fashionable who was injoined penance by any other than Ambrosio. In his resolution of never stirring out of his Convent, He still persisted. This circumstance created a still greater opinion of his sanctity and self-denial. Above all, the Women sang forth212 his praises loudly, less influenced by devotion than by his noble countenance, majestic213 air, and well-turned, graceful214 figure. The Abbey door was thronged215 with Carriages from morning to night; and the noblest and fairest Dames216 of Madrid confessed to the Abbot their secret peccadilloes217.
The eyes of the luxurious Friar devoured218 their charms: Had his Penitents220 consulted those Interpreters, He would have needed no other means of expressing his desires. For his misfortune, they were so strongly persuaded of his continence, that the possibility of his harbouring indecent thoughts never once entered their imaginations. The climate’s heat, ’tis well known, operates with no small influence upon the constitutions of the Spanish Ladies: But the most abandoned would have thought it an easier task to inspire with passion the marble Statue of St. Francis than the cold and rigid221 heart of the immaculate Ambrosio.
On his part, the Friar was little acquainted with the depravity of the world; He suspected not that but few of his Penitents would have rejected his addresses. Yet had He been better instructed on this head, the danger attending such an attempt would have sealed up his lips in silence. He knew that it would be difficult for a Woman to keep a secret so strange and so important as his frailty; and He even trembled lest Matilda should betray him. Anxious to preserve a reputation which was infinitely222 dear to him, He saw all the risque of committing it to the power of some vain giddy Female; and as the Beauties of Madrid affected only his senses without touching223 his heart, He forgot them as soon as they were out of his sight. The danger of discovery, the fear of being repulsed224, the loss of reputation, all these considerations counselled him to stifle225 his desires: And though He now felt for it the most perfect indifference226, He was necessitated227 to confine himself to Matilda’s person.
One morning, the confluence228 of Penitents was greater than usual. He was detained in the Confessional Chair till a late hour. At length the crowd was dispatched, and He prepared to quit the Chapel, when two Females entered and drew near him with humility. They threw up their veils, and the youngest entreated229 him to listen to her for a few moments. The melody of her voice, of that voice to which no Man ever listened without interest, immediately caught Ambrosio’s attention. He stopped. The Petitioner230 seemed bowed down with affliction: Her cheeks were pale, her eyes dimmed with tears, and her hair fell in disorder231 over her face and bosom. Still her countenance was so sweet, so innocent, so heavenly, as might have charmed an heart less susceptible232, than that which panted in the Abbot’s breast. With more than usual softness of manner He desired her to proceed, and heard her speak as follows with an emotion which increased every moment.
‘Reverend Father, you see an Unfortunate, threatened with the loss of her dearest, of almost her only Friend! My Mother, my excellent Mother lies upon the bed of sickness. A sudden and dreadful malady233 seized her last night; and so rapid has been its progress, that the Physicians despair of her life. Human aid fails me; Nothing remains234 for me but to implore235 the mercy of Heaven. Father, all Madrid rings with the report of your piety and virtue. Deign to remember my Mother in your prayers: Perhaps they may prevail on the Almighty236 to spare her; and should that be the case, I engage myself every Thursday in the next three Months to illuminate237 the Shrine238 of St. Francis in his honour.’
‘So!’ thought the Monk; ‘Here we have a second Vincentio della Ronda. Rosario’s adventure began thus,’ and He wished secretly that this might have the same conclusion.
He acceded239 to the request. The Petitioner returned him thanks with every mark of gratitude240, and then continued.
‘I have yet another favour to ask. We are Strangers in Madrid; My Mother needs a Confessor, and knows not to whom She should apply. We understand that you never quit the Abbey, and Alas241! my poor Mother is unable to come hither! If you would have the goodness, reverend Father, to name a proper person, whose wise and pious242 consolations243 may soften244 the agonies of my Parent’s deathbed, you will confer an everlasting245 favour upon hearts not ungrateful.’
With this petition also the Monk complied. Indeed, what petition would He have refused, if urged in such enchanting246 accents? The suppliant247 was so interesting! Her voice was so sweet, so harmonious248! Her very tears became her, and her affliction seemed to add new lustre249 to her charms. He promised to send to her a Confessor that same Evening, and begged her to leave her address. The Companion presented him with a Card on which it was written, and then withdrew with the fair Petitioner, who pronounced before her departure a thousand benedictions250 on the Abbot’s goodness. His eyes followed her out of the Chapel. It was not till She was out of sight that He examined the Card, on which He read the following words.
‘Donna Elvira Dalfa, Strada di San Iago, four doors from the Palace d’Albornos.’
The Suppliant was no other than Antonia, and Leonella was her Companion. The Latter had not consented without difficulty to accompany her Niece to the Abbey: Ambrosio had inspired her with such awe that She trembled at the very sight of him. Her fears had conquered even her natural loquacity252, and while in his presence She uttered not a single syllable253.
The Monk retired to his Cell, whither He was pursued by Antonia’s image. He felt a thousand new emotions springing in his bosom, and He trembled to examine into the cause which gave them birth. They were totally different from those inspired by Matilda, when She first declared her sex and her affection. He felt not the provocation254 of lust; No voluptuous desires rioted in his bosom; Nor did a burning imagination picture to him the charms which Modesty255 had veiled from his eyes. On the contrary, what He now felt was a mingled sentiment of tenderness, admiration, and respect. A soft and delicious melancholy infused itself into his soul, and He would not have exchanged it for the most lively transports of joy. Society now disgusted him: He delighted in solitude256, which permitted his indulging the visions of Fancy: His thoughts were all gentle, sad, and soothing257, and the whole wide world presented him with no other object than Antonia.
‘Happy Man!’ He exclaimed in his romantic enthusiasm; ‘Happy Man, who is destined258 to possess the heart of that lovely Girl! What delicacy in her features! What elegance259 in her form! How enchanting was the timid innocence of her eyes, and how different from the wanton expression, the wild luxurious fire which sparkles in Matilda’s! Oh! sweeter must one kiss be snatched from the rosy260 lips of the First, than all the full and lustful261 favours bestowed262 so freely by the Second. Matilda gluts263 me with enjoyment42 even to loathing264, forces me to her arms, apes the Harlot, and glories in her prostitution. Disgusting! Did She know the inexpressible charm of Modesty, how irresistibly265 it enthralls266 the heart of Man, how firmly it chains him to the Throne of Beauty, She never would have thrown it off. What would be too dear a price for this lovely Girl’s affections? What would I refuse to sacrifice, could I be released from my vows, and permitted to declare my love in the sight of earth and heaven? While I strove to inspire her with tenderness, with friendship and esteem, how tranquil163 and undisturbed would the hours roll away! Gracious God! To see her blue downcast eyes beam upon mine with timid fondness! To sit for days, for years listening to that gentle voice! To acquire the right of obliging her, and hear the artless expressions of her gratitude! To watch the emotions of her spotless heart! To encourage each dawning virtue! To share in her joy when happy, to kiss away her tears when distrest, and to see her fly to my arms for comfort and support! Yes; If there is perfect bliss on earth, ’tis his lot alone, who becomes that Angel’s Husband.’
While his fancy coined these ideas, He paced his Cell with a disordered air. His eyes were fixed upon vacancy267: His head reclined upon his shoulder; A tear rolled down his cheek, while He reflected that the vision of happiness for him could never be realized.
‘She is lost to me!’ He continued; ‘By marriage She cannot be mine: And to seduce268 such innocence, to use the confidence reposed in me to work her ruin. . . . Oh! it would be a crime, blacker than yet the world ever witnessed! Fear not, lovely Girl! Your virtue runs no risque from me. Not for Indies would I make that gentle bosom know the tortures of remorse.’
Again He paced his chamber269 hastily. Then stopping, his eye fell upon the picture of his once-admired Madona. He tore it with indignation from the wall: He threw it on the ground, and spurned270 it from him with his foot.
‘The Prostitute!’
Unfortunate Matilda! Her Paramour forgot that for his sake alone She had forfeited271 her claim to virtue; and his only reason for despising her was that She had loved him much too well.
He threw himself into a Chair which stood near the Table. He saw the card with Elvira’s address. He took it up, and it brought to his recollection his promise respecting a Confessor. He passed a few minutes in doubt: But Antonia’s Empire over him was already too much decided to permit his making a long resistance to the idea which struck him. He resolved to be the Confessor himself. He could leave the Abbey unobserved without difficulty: By wrapping up his head in his Cowl He hoped to pass through the Streets without being recognised: By taking these precautions, and by recommending secrecy273 to Elvira’s family, He doubted not to keep Madrid in ignorance that He had broken his vow22 never to see the outside of the Abbey walls. Matilda was the only person whose vigilance He dreaded: But by informing her at the Refectory that during the whole of that day, Business would confine him to his Cell, He thought himself secure from her wakeful jealousy274. Accordingly, at the hours when the Spaniards are generally taking their Siesta275, He ventured to quit the Abbey by a private door, the Key of which was in his possession. The Cowl of his habit was thrown over his face: From the heat of the weather the Streets were almost totally deserted276: The Monk met with few people, found the Strada di San Iago, and arrived without accident at Donna Elvira’s door. He rang, was admitted, and immediately ushered277 into an upper apartment.
It was here that He ran the greatest risque of a discovery. Had Leonella been at home, She would have recognized him directly: Her communicative disposition would never have permitted her to rest till all Madrid was informed that Ambrosio had ventured out of the Abbey, and visited her Sister. Fortune here stood the Monk’s Friend. On Leonella’s return home, She found a letter instructing her that a Cousin was just dead, who had left what little He possessed between Herself and Elvira. To secure this bequest278 She was obliged to set out for Cordova without losing a moment. Amidst all her foibles her heart was truly warm and affectionate, and She was unwilling141 to quit her Sister in so dangerous a state. But Elvira insisted upon her taking the journey, conscious that in her Daughter’s forlorn situation no increase of fortune, however trifling, ought to be neglected. Accordingly, Leonella left Madrid, sincerely grieved at her Sister’s illness, and giving some few sighs to the memory of the amiable but inconstant Don Christoval. She was fully persuaded that at first She had made a terrible breach279 in his heart: But hearing nothing more of him, She supposed that He had quitted the pursuit, disgusted by the lowness of her origin, and knowing upon other terms than marriage He had nothing to hope from such a Dragon of Virtue as She professed280 herself; Or else, that being naturally capricious and changeable, the remembrance of her charms had been effaced281 from the Conde’s heart by those of some newer Beauty. Whatever was the cause of her losing him, She lamented282 it sorely. She strove in vain, as She assured every body who was kind enough to listen to her, to tear his image from her too susceptible heart. She affected the airs of a lovesick Virgin283, and carried them all to the most ridiculous excess. She heaved lamentable284 sighs, walked with her arms folded, uttered long soliloquies, and her discourse generally turned upon some forsaken285 Maid who expired of a broken heart! Her fiery286 locks were always ornamented287 with a garland of willow288; Every evening She was seen straying upon the Banks of a rivulet289 by Moonlight; and She declared herself a violent Admirer of murmuring Streams and Nightingales;
‘Of lonely haunts, and twilight291 Groves292,
‘Places which pale Passion loves!’
Such was the state of Leonella’s mind, when obliged to quit Madrid. Elvira was out of patience at all these follies293, and endeavoured at persuading her to act like a reasonable Woman. Her advice was thrown away: Leonella assured her at parting that nothing could make her forget the perfidious294 Don Christoval. In this point She was fortunately mistaken. An honest Youth of Cordova, Journeyman to an Apothecary295, found that her fortune would be sufficient to set him up in a genteel Shop of his own: In consequence of this reflection He avowed296 himself her Admirer. Leonella was not inflexible297. The ardour of his sighs melted her heart, and She soon consented to make him the happiest of Mankind. She wrote to inform her Sister of her marriage; But, for reasons which will be explained hereafter, Elvira never answered her letter.
Ambrosio was conducted into the Antichamber to that where Elvira was reposing298. The Female Domestic who had admitted him left him alone while She announced his arrival to her Mistress. Antonia, who had been by her Mother’s Bedside, immediately came to him.
‘Pardon me, Father,’ said She, advancing towards him; when recognizing his features, She stopped suddenly, and uttered a cry of joy. ‘Is it possible!’ She continued;
‘Do not my eyes deceive me? Has the worthy Ambrosio broken through his resolution, that He may soften the agonies of the best of Women? What pleasure will this visit give my Mother! Let me not delay for a moment the comfort which your piety and wisdom will afford her.’
Thus saying, She opened the chamber door, presented to her Mother her distinguished300 Visitor, and having placed an armed-chair by the side of the Bed, withdrew into another department.
Elvira was highly gratified by this visit: Her expectations had been raised high by general report, but She found them far exceeded. Ambrosio, endowed by nature with powers of pleasing, exerted them to the utmost while conversing301 with Antonia’s Mother. With persuasive eloquence He calmed every fear, and dissipated every scruple302: He bad her reflect on the infinite mercy of her Judge, despoiled303 Death of his darts304 and terrors, and taught her to view without shrinking the abyss of eternity305, on whose brink306 She then stood. Elvira was absorbed in attention and delight: While She listened to his exhortations307, confidence and comfort stole insensibly into her mind. She unbosomed to him without hesitation308 her cares and apprehensions309. The latter respecting a future life He had already quieted: And He now removed the former, which She felt for the concerns of this. She trembled for Antonia. She had none to whose care She could recommend her, save to the Marquis de las Cisternas and her Sister Leonella. The protection of the One was very uncertain; and as to the Other, though fond of her Niece, Leonella was so thoughtless and vain as to make her an improper310 person to have the sole direction of a Girl so young and ignorant of the World. The Friar no sooner learnt the cause of her alarms than He begged her to make herself easy upon that head. He doubted not being able to secure for Antonia a safe refuge in the House of one of his Penitents, the Marchioness of Villa–Franca: This was a Lady of acknowledged virtue, remarkable311 for strict principles and extensive charity. Should accident deprive her of this resource, He engaged to procure Antonia a reception in some respectable Convent: That is to say, in quality of boarder; for Elvira had declared herself no Friend to a monastic life, and the Monk was either candid312 or complaisant313 enough to allow that her disapprobation was not unfounded.
These proofs of the interest which He felt for her completely won Elvira’s heart. In thanking him She exhausted every expression which Gratitude could furnish, and protested that now She should resign herself with tranquillity to the Grave. Ambrosio rose to take leave: He promised to return the next day at the same hour, but requested that his visits might be kept secret.
‘I am unwilling’ said He, ‘that my breaking through a rule imposed by necessity should be generally known. Had I not resolved never to quit my Convent, except upon circumstances as urgent as that which has conducted me to your door, I should be frequently summoned upon insignificant314 occasions: That time would be engrossed315 by the Curious, the Unoccupied, and the fanciful, which I now pass at the Bedside of the Sick, in comforting the expiring Penitent219, and clearing the passage to Eternity from Thorns.’
Elvira commended equally his prudence134 and compassion, promising to conceal carefully the honour of his visits. The Monk then gave her his benediction251, and retired from the chamber.
In the Antiroom He found Antonia: He could not refuse himself the pleasure of passing a few moments in her society. He bad her take comfort, for that her Mother seemed composed and tranquil, and He hoped that She might yet do well. He enquired316 who attended her, and engaged to send the Physician of his Convent to see her, one of the most skilful317 in Madrid. He then launched out in Elvira’s commendation, praised her purity and fortitude318 of mind, and declared that She had inspired him with the highest esteem and reverence319. Antonia’s innocent heart swelled320 with gratitude: Joy danced in her eyes, where a tear still sparkled. The hopes which He gave her of her Mother’s recovery, the lively interest which He seemed to feel for her, and the flattering way in which She was mentioned by him, added to the report of his judgment and virtue, and to the impression made upon her by his eloquence, confirmed the favourable321 opinion with which his first, appearance had inspired Antonia. She replied with diffidence, but without restraint: She feared not to relate to him all her little sorrows, all her little fears and anxieties; and She thanked him for his goodness with all the genuine warmth which favours kindle322 in a young and innocent heart. Such alone know how to estimate benefits at their full value. They who are conscious of Mankind’s perfidy323 and selfishness, ever receive an obligation with apprehension and distrust: They suspect that some secret motive324 must lurk325 behind it: They express their thanks with restraint and caution, and fear to praise a kind action to its full extent, aware that some future day a return may be required. Not so Antonia; She thought the world was composed only of those who resembled her, and that vice existed, was to her still a secret. The Monk had been of service to her; He said that He wished her well; She was grateful for his kindness, and thought that no terms were strong enough to be the vehicle of her thanks. With what delight did Ambrosio listen to the declaration of her artless gratitude! The natural grace of her manners, the unequalled sweetness of her voice, her modest vivacity326, her unstudied elegance, her expressive327 countenance, and intelligent eyes united to inspire him with pleasure and admiration, While the solidity and correctness of her remarks received additional beauty from the unaffected simplicity328 of the language in which they were conveyed.
Ambrosio was at length obliged to tear himself from this conversation which possessed for him but too many charms. He repeated to Antonia his wishes that his visits should not be made known, which desire She promised to observe. He then quitted the House, while his Enchantress hastened to her Mother, ignorant of the mischief329 which her Beauty had caused. She was eager to know Elvira’s opinion of the Man whom She had praised in such enthusiastic terms, and was delighted to find it equally favourable, if not even more so, than her own.
‘Even before He spoke,’ said Elvira, ‘I was prejudiced in his favour: The fervour of his exhortations, dignity of his manner, and closeness of his reasoning, were very far from inducing me to alter my opinion. His fine and full-toned voice struck me particularly; But surely, Antonia, I have heard it before. It seemed perfectly familiar to my ear. Either I must have known the Abbot in former times, or his voice bears a wonderful resemblance to that of some other, to whom I have often listened.
There were certain tones which touched my very heart, and made me feel sensations so singular, that I strive in vain to account for them.’
‘My dearest Mother, it produced the same effect upon me: Yet certainly neither of us ever heard his voice till we came to Madrid. I suspect that what we attribute to his voice, really proceeds from his pleasant manners, which forbid our considering him as a Stranger. I know not why, but I feel more at my ease while conversing with him than I usually do with people who are unknown to me. I feared not to repeat to him all my childish thoughts; and somehow I felt confident that He would hear my folly330 with indulgence. Oh! I was not deceived in him! He listened to me with such an air of kindness and attention! He answered me with such gentleness, such condescension331! He did not call me an Infant, and treat me with contempt, as our cross old Confessor at the Castle used to do. I verily believe that if I had lived in Murcia a thousand years, I never should have liked that fat old Father Dominic!’
‘I confess that Father Dominic had not the most pleasing manners in the world; But He was honest, friendly, and well-meaning.’
‘Ah! my dear Mother, those qualities are so common!’
‘God grant, my Child, that Experience may not teach you to think them rare and precious: I have found them but too much so! But tell me, Antonia; Why is it impossible for me to have seen the Abbot before?’
‘Because since the moment when He entered the Abbey, He has never been on the outside of its walls. He told me just now, that from his ignorance of the Streets, He had some difficulty to find the Strada di San Iago, though so near the Abbey.’
‘All this is possible, and still I may have seen him BEFORE He entered the Abbey: In order to come out, it was rather necessary that He should first go in.’
‘Holy Virgin! As you say, that is very true. — Oh! But might He not have been born in the Abbey?’
Elvira smiled.
‘Why, not very easily.’
‘Stay, Stay! Now I recollect272 how it was. He was put into the Abbey quite a Child; The common People say that He fell from heaven, and was sent as a present to the Capuchins by the Virgin.’
‘That was very kind of her. And so He fell from heaven, Antonia?
He must have had a terrible tumble.’
‘Many do not credit this, and I fancy, my dear Mother, that I must number you among the Unbelievers. Indeed, as our Landlady332 told my Aunt, the general idea is that his Parents, being poor and unable to maintain him, left him just born at the Abbey door. The late Superior from pure charity had him educated in the Convent, and He proved to be a model of virtue, and piety, and learning, and I know not what else besides: In consequence, He was first received as a Brother of the order, and not long ago was chosen Abbot. However, whether this account or the other is the true one, at least all agree that when the Monks took him under their care, He could not speak: Therefore, you could not have heard his voice before He entered the Monastery, because at that time He had no voice at all.’
‘Upon my word, Antonia, you argue very closely! Your conclusions are infallible! I did not suspect you of being so able a Logician333.’
‘Ah! You are mocking me! But so much the better. It delights me to see you in spirits: Besides you seem tranquil and easy, and I hope that you will have no more convulsions. Oh! I was sure the Abbot’s visit would do you good!’
‘It has indeed done me good, my Child. He has quieted my mind upon some points which agitated334 me, and I already feel the effects of his attention. My eyes grow heavy, and I think I can sleep a little. Draw the curtains, my Antonia: But if I should not wake before midnight, do not sit up with me, I charge you.’
Antonia promised to obey her, and having received her blessing84 drew the curtains of the Bed. She then seated herself in silence at her embroidery335 frame, and beguiled336 the hours with building Castles in the air. Her spirits were enlivened by the evident change for the better in Elvira, and her fancy presented her with visions bright and pleasing. In these dreams Ambrosio made no despicable figure. She thought of him with joy and gratitude; But for every idea which fell to the Friar’s share, at least two were unconsciously bestowed upon Lorenzo. Thus passed the time, till the Bell in the neighbouring Steeple of the Capuchin Cathedral announced the hour of midnight: Antonia remembered her Mother’s injunctions, and obeyed them, though with reluctance337. She undrew the curtains with caution. Elvira was enjoying a profound and quiet slumber; Her cheek glowed with health’s returning colours: A smile declared that her dreams were pleasant, and as Antonia bent over her, She fancied that She heard her name pronounced. She kissed her Mother’s forehead softly, and retired to her chamber. There She knelt before a Statue of St. Rosolia, her Patroness; She recommended herself to the protection of heaven, and as had been her custom from infancy, concluded her devotions by chaunting the following Stanzas338.
MIDNIGHT HYMN339
Now all is hushed; The solemn chime
No longer swells340 the nightly gale290:
Thy awful presence, Hour sublime341,
With spotless heart once more I hail.
’Tis now the moment still and dread38,
When Sorcerers use their baleful power;
When Graves give up their buried dead
To profit by the sanctioned hour:
From guilt and guilty thoughts secure,
To duty and devotion true,
With bosom light and conscience pure,
Repose, thy gentle aid I woo.
Good Angels, take my thanks, that still
The snares342 of vice I view with scorn;
Thanks, that to-night as free from ill
I sleep, as when I woke at morn.
Yet may not my unconscious breast
Harbour some guilt to me unknown?
Some wish impure344, which unreprest
You blush to see, and I to own?
If such there be, in gentle dream
Instruct my feet to shun345 the snare343;
Bid truth upon my errors beam,
And deign to make me still your care.
Chase from my peaceful bed away
The witching Spell, a foe346 to rest,
The nightly Goblin, wanton Fay,
The Ghost in pain, and Fiend unblest:
Let not the Tempter in mine ear
Pour lessons of unhallowed joy;
Let not the Night-mare, wandering near
My Couch, the calm of sleep destroy;
Let not some horrid347 dream affright
With strange fantastic forms mine eyes;
But rather bid some vision bright
Display the blissof yonder skies.
Show me the crystal Domes299 of Heaven,
The worlds of light where Angels lie;
Shew me the lot to Mortals given,
Who guiltless live, who guiltless die.
Then show me how a seat to gain
Amidst those blissful realms of
Air; Teach me to shun each guilty stain,
And guide me to the good and fair.
So every morn and night, my Voice
To heaven the grateful strain shall raise;
In You as Guardian348 Powers rejoice,
Good Angels, and exalt157 your praise:
So will I strive with zealous349 fire
Each vice to shun, each fault correct;
Will love the lessons you inspire,
And Prize the virtues you protect.
Then when at length by high command
My body seeks the Grave’s repose,
When Death draws nigh with friendly hand
My failing Pilgrim eyes to close;
Pleased that my soul has ‘scaped the wreck350,
Sighless will I my life resign,
And yield to God my Spirit back,
As pure as when it first was mine.
Having finished her usual devotions, Antonia retired to bed. Sleep soon stole over her senses; and for several hours She enjoyed that calm repose which innocence alone can know, and for which many a Monarch351 with pleasure would exchange his Crown.
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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usurped
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的过去式和过去分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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perjury
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| n.伪证；伪证罪 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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satiety
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| n.饱和；(市场的)充分供应 | |
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frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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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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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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supplicating
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| v.祈求，哀求，恳求( supplicate的现在分词 ) | |
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solicit
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| vi.勾引；乞求；vt.请求，乞求；招揽(生意) | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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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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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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expiated
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| v.为（所犯罪过）接受惩罚，赎（罪）( expiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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celibacy
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| n.独身(主义) | |
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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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banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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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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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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voluptuously
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| adv.风骚地，体态丰满地 | |
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voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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intemperate
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| adj.无节制的，放纵的 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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35
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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36
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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37
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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38
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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39
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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40
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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41
enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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42
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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43
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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44
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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45
appall
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| vt.使惊骇，使大吃一惊 | |
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46
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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47
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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48
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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49
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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50
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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51
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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52
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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53
vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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54
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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55
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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56
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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57
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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58
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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59
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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60
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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61
transgression
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| n.违背；犯规；罪过 | |
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62
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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63
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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64
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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65
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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66
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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67
conceal
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|
| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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68
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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69
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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70
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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71
voluptuousness
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| n.风骚，体态丰满 | |
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72
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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73
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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74
trifling
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|
| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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75
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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76
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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77
abhor
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| v.憎恶；痛恨 | |
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78
abhorrence
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|
| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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79
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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80
apprehension
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|
| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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81
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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82
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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83
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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84
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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85
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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86
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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87
strictly
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|
| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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88
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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89
deviation
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| n.背离，偏离；偏差，偏向；离题 | |
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90
laymen
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| 门外汉，外行人( layman的名词复数 )； 普通教徒（有别于神职人员） | |
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91
venial
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| adj.可宽恕的；轻微的 | |
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92
heinous
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|
| adj.可憎的，十恶不赦的 | |
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93
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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94
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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95
prescription
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|
| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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96
affected
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|
| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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97
lament
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|
| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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98
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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99
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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100
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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101
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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102
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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103
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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104
cloister
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|
| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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105
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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106
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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107
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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108
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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109
thither
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|
| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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110
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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111
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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113
votaries
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| n.信徒( votary的名词复数 )；追随者；（天主教）修士；修女 | |
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114
perfectly
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|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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115
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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116
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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117
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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118
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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119
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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120
caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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121
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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122
nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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123
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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124
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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125
espouse
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| v.支持，赞成，嫁娶 | |
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126
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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127
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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128
contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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129
mitigate
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| vt.（使）减轻，（使）缓和 | |
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130
deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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131
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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132
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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133
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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134
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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135
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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136
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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137
manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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138
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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139
insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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140
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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141
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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142
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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143
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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144
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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145
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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146
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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147
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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148
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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149
infringed
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|
| v.违反（规章等）( infringe的过去式和过去分词 )；侵犯（某人的权利）；侵害（某人的自由、权益等） | |
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150
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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151
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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152
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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153
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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154
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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155
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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156
exalted
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|
| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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157
exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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158
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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159
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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160
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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161
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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162
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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163
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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164
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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165
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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166
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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167
glutted
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| v.吃得过多( glut的过去式和过去分词 )；（对胃口、欲望等）纵情满足；使厌腻；塞满 | |
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168
cloys
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| v.发腻，倒胃口( cloy的第三人称单数 ) | |
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169
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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170
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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171
illicit
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| adj.非法的，禁止的，不正当的 | |
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172
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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173
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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174
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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175
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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176
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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177
auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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178
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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179
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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180
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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181
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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182
instructors
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| 指导者，教师( instructor的名词复数 ) | |
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183
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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184
disinterestedness
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185
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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186
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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187
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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188
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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189
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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190
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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191
pervert
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| n.堕落者，反常者；vt.误用，滥用；使人堕落，使入邪路 | |
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192
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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193
offenders
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| n.冒犯者( offender的名词复数 )；犯规者；罪犯；妨害…的人（或事物） | |
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194
inborn
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| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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195
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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196
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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197
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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198
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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199
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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200
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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201
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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202
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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203
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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204
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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205
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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206
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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207
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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208
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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209
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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210
auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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211
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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212
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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213
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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214
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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215
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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216
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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217
peccadilloes
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| n.轻罪，小过失( peccadillo的名词复数 ) | |
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218
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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219
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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220
penitents
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| n.后悔者( penitent的名词复数 )；忏悔者 | |
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221
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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222
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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223
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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224
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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225
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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226
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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227
necessitated
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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228
confluence
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| n.汇合，聚集 | |
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229
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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230
petitioner
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| n.请愿人 | |
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231
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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232
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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233
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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234
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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235
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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236
almighty
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|
| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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237
illuminate
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| vt.照亮，照明；用灯光装饰；说明，阐释 | |
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238
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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239
acceded
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|
| v.（正式）加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 )；答应；（通过财产的添附而）增加；开始任职 | |
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240
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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241
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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242
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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243
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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244
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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245
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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246
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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247
suppliant
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| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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248
harmonious
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|
| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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249
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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250
benedictions
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| n.祝福( benediction的名词复数 )；（礼拜结束时的）赐福祈祷；恩赐；（大写）（罗马天主教）祈求上帝赐福的仪式 | |
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251
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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252
loquacity
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| n.多话，饶舌 | |
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253
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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254
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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255
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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256
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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257
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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258
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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259
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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260
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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261
lustful
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| a.贪婪的；渴望的 | |
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262
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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263
gluts
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| n.供过于求( glut的名词复数 )；过量供应；放纵；尽量v.吃得过多( glut的第三人称单数 )；（对胃口、欲望等）纵情满足；使厌腻；塞满 | |
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264
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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265
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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266
enthralls
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| 迷住，吸引住( enthrall的第三人称单数 )； 使感到非常愉快 | |
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267
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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268
seduce
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| vt.勾引，诱奸，诱惑，引诱 | |
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269
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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270
spurned
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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271
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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272
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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273
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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274
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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275
siesta
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| n.午睡 | |
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276
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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277
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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278
bequest
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| n.遗赠；遗产，遗物 | |
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279
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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280
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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281
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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282
lamented
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|
| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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283
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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284
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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285
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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286
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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287
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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288
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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289
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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290
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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291
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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292
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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293
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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294
perfidious
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| adj.不忠的，背信弃义的 | |
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295
apothecary
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| n.药剂师 | |
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296
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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297
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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298
reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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299
domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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300
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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301
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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302
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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303
despoiled
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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304
darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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305
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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306
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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307
exhortations
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| n.敦促( exhortation的名词复数 )；极力推荐；（正式的）演讲；（宗教仪式中的）劝诫 | |
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308
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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309
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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310
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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312
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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313
complaisant
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| adj.顺从的，讨好的 | |
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314
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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315
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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316
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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317
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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318
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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319
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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320
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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321
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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322
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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323
perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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324
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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325
lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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326
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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327
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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328
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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329
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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330
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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331
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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332
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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333
logician
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| n.逻辑学家 | |
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334
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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335
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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336
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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337
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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338
stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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339
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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340
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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341
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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342
snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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343
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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344
impure
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| adj.不纯净的，不洁的；不道德的，下流的 | |
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345
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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346
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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347
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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348
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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349
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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350
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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351
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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