To meet thee in that hollow vale.
[Exequy on the death of his wife, by Henry King, Bishop1 of Chichester.]
ILL-FATED and mysterious man! — bewildered in the brilliancy of thine own and fallen in the flames of thine own youth! Again in fancy I behold2 thee! Once more thy form hath risen before me! — not — oh not as thou art — in the cold valley and shadow — but as thou shouldst be — squandering3 away a life of magnificent meditation4 in that city of dim visions, thine own Venice — which is a star-beloved Elysium of the sea, and the wide windows of whose Palladian palaces look down with a deep and bitter meaning upon the secrets of her silent waters. Yes! I repeat it-as thou shouldst be. There are surely other worlds than this — other thoughts than the thoughts of the multitude — other speculations5 than the speculations of the sophist. Who then shall call thy conduct into question? who blame thee for thy visionary hours, or denounce those occupations as a wasting away of life, which were but the overflowings of thine everlasting6 energies?
It was at Venice, beneath the covered archway there called the Ponte di Sospiri, that I met for the third or fourth time the person of whom I speak. It is with a confused recollection that I bring to mind the circumstances of that meeting. Yet I remember — aah! how should I forget? — the deep midnight, the Bridge of Sighs, the beauty of woman, and the Genius of Romance that stalked up and down the narrow canal.
It was a night of unusual gloom. The great clock of the Piazza7 had sounded the fifth hour of the Italian evening. The square of the Campanile lay silent and deserted8, and the lights in the old Ducal Palace were dying fast away. I was returning home from the Piazetta, by way of the Grand Canal. But as my gondola9 arrived opposite the mouth of the canal San Marco, a female voice from its recesses10 broke suddenly upon the night, in one hysterical11, and long continued shriek12. Startled at the sound, I sprang upon my feet: while the gondolier, letting slip his single oar13, lost it in the pitchy darkness beyond a chance of recovery, and we were consequently left to the guidance of the current which here sets from the greater into the smaller channel. Like some huge and sable-feathered condor14, we were slowly drifting down towards the Bridge of Sighs, when a thousand flambeaux flashing from the windows, and down the staircases of the Ducal Palace, turned all at once that deep gloom into a livid and preternatural day.
A child, slipping from the arms of its own mother, had fallen from an upper window of the lofty structure into the deep and dim canal. The quiet waters had closed placidly15 over their victim; and, although my own gondola was the only one in sight, many a stout16 swimmer, already in the stream, was seeking in vain upon the surface, the treasure which was to be found, alas17! only within the abyss. Upon the broad black marble flagstones at the entrance of the palace, and a few steps above the water, stood a figure which none who then saw can have ever since forgotten. It was the Marchesa Aphrodite — the adoration18 of all Venice — the gayest of the gay — the most lovely where all were beautiful — but still the young wife of the old and intriguing19 Mentoni, and the mother of that fair child, her first and only one, who now deep beneath the murky20 water, was thinking in bitterness of heart upon her sweet caresses21, and exhausting its little life in struggles to call upon her name.
She stood alone. Her small, bare, and silvery feet gleamed in the black mirror of marble beneath her. Her hair, not as yet more than half loosened for the night from its ball-room array, clustered, amid a shower of diamonds, round and round her classical head, in curls like those of the young hyacinth. A snowy-white and gauze-like drapery seemed to be nearly the sole covering to her delicate form; but the mid-summer and midnight air was hot, sullen22, and still, and no motion in the statue-like form itself, stirred even the folds of that raiment of very vapor23 which hung around it as the heavy marble hangs around the Niobe. Yet — strange to say! — her large lustrous24 eyes were not turned downwards25 upon that grave wherein her brightest hope lay buried — but riveted26 in a widely different direction! The prison of the Old Republic is, I think, the stateliest building in all Venice — but how could that lady gaze so fixedly27 upon it, when beneath her lay stifling28 her only child? Yon dark, gloomy niche29, too, yawns right opposite her chamber30 window — what, then, could there be in its shadows — in its architecture — in its ivy-wreathed and solemn cornices — that the Marchesa di Mentoni had not wondered at a thousand times before? Nonsense! — Who does not remember that, at such a time as this, the eye, like a shattered mirror, multiplies the images of its sorrow, and sees in innumerable far-off places, the wo which is close at hand?
Many steps above the Marchesa, and within the arch of the water-gate, stood, in full dress, the Satyr-like figure of Mentoni himself. He was occasionally occupied in thrumming a guitar, and seemed ennuye to the very death, as at intervals31 he gave directions for the recovery of his child. Stupefied and aghast, I had myself no power to move from the upright position I had assumed upon first hearing the shriek, and must have presented to the eyes of the agitated32 group a spectral33 and ominous34 appearance, as with pale countenance35 and rigid36 limbs, I floated down among them in that funereal37 gondola.
All efforts proved in vain. Many of the most energetic in the search were relaxing their exertions38, and yielding to a gloomy sorrow. There seemed but little hope for the child; (how much less than for the mother!) but now, from the interior of that dark niche which has been already mentioned as forming a part of the Old Republican prison, and as fronting the lattice of the Marchesa, a figure muffled39 in a cloak, stepped out within reach of the light, and, pausing a moment upon the verge40 of the giddy descent, plunged41 headlong into the canal. As, in an instant afterwards, he stood with the still living and breathing child within his grasp, upon the marble flagstones by the side of the Marchesa, his cloak, heavy with the drenching42 water, became unfastened, and, falling in folds about his feet, discovered to the wonder-stricken spectators the graceful43 person of a very young man, with the sound of whose name the greater part of Europe was then ringing.
No word spoke44 the deliverer. But the Marchesa! She will now receive her child — she will press it to her heart — she will cling to its little form, and smother45 it with her caresses. Alas! another’s arms have taken it from the stranger — another’s arms have taken it away, and borne it afar off, unnoticed, into the palace! And the Marchesa! Her lip — her beautiful lip trembles: tears are gathering46 in her eyes — those eyes which, like Pliny’s acanthus, are “soft and almost liquid.” Yes! tears are gathering in those eyes-and see! the entire woman thrills throughout the soul, and the statue has started into life! The pallor of the marble countenance, the swelling47 of the marble bosom48, the very purity of the marble feet, we behold suddenly flushed over with a tide of ungovernable crimson49; and a slight shudder50 quivers about her delicate frame, as a gentle air at Napoli about the rich silver lilies in the grass.
Why should that lady blush! To this demand there is no answer — except that, having left, in the eager haste and terror of a mother’s heart, the privacy of her own boudoir, she has neglected to enthrall51 her tiny feet in their slippers52, and utterly53 forgotten to throw over her Venetian shoulders that drapery which is their due. What other possible reason could there have been for her so blushing? — for the glance of those wild appealing eyes? for the unusual tumult54 of that throbbing55 bosom? — for the convulsive pressure of that trembling hand? — that hand which fell, as Mentoni turned into the palace, accidentally, upon the hand of the stranger. What reason could there have been for the low — the singularly low tone of those unmeaning words which the lady uttered hurriedly in bidding him adieu? “Thou hast conquered —” she said, or the murmurs56 of the water deceived me-“thou hast conquered — one hour after sunrise — we shall meet — so let it be!”
The tumult had subsided57, the lights had died away within the palace, and the stranger, whom I now recognized, stood alone upon the flags. He shook with inconceivable agitation58, and his eye glanced around in search of a gondola. I could not do less than offer him the service of my own; and he accepted the civility. Having obtained an oar at the water-gate, we proceeded together to his residence, while he rapidly recovered his self-possession, and spoke of our former slight acquaintance in terms of great apparent cordiality.
There are some subjects upon which I take pleasure in being minute. The person of the stranger — let me call him by this title, who to all the world was still a stranger — the person of the stranger is one of these subjects. In height he might have been below rather than above the medium size: although there were moments of intense passion when his frame actually expanded and belled the assertion. The light, almost slender symmetry of his figure, promised more of that ready activity which he evinced at the Bridge of Sighs, than of that Herculean strength which he has been known to wield59 without an effort, upon occasions of more dangerous emergency. With the mouth and chin of a deity60 — singular, wild, full, liquid eyes, whose shadows varied61 from pure hazel to intense and brilliant jet — and a profusion62 of curling, black hair, from which a forehead of unusual breadth gleamed forth63 at intervals all light and ivory — his were features than which I have seen none more classically regular, except, perhaps, the marble ones of the Emperor Commodus. Yet his countenance was, nevertheless, one of those which all men have seen at some period of their lives, and have never afterwards seen again. It had no peculiar64 — it had no settled predominant expression to be fastened upon the memory; a countenance seen and instantly forgotten — but forgotten with a vague and never-ceasing desire of recalling it to mind. Not that the spirit of each rapid passion failed, at any time, to throw its own distinct image upon the mirror of that face — but that the mirror, mirror-like, retained no vestige65 of the passion, when the passion had departed.
Upon leaving him on the night of our adventure, he solicited66 me, in what I thought an urgent manner, to call upon him very early the next morning. Shortly after sunrise, I found myself accordingly at his Palazzo, one of those huge structures of gloomy, yet fantastic pomp, which tower above the waters of the Grand Canal in the vicinity of the Rialto. I was shown up a broad winding67 staircase of mosaics68, into an apartment whose unparalleled splendor69 burst through the opening door with an actual glare, making me blind and dizzy with luxuriousness70.
I knew my acquaintance to be wealthy. Report had spoken of his possessions in terms which I had even ventured to call terms of ridiculous exaggeration. But as I gazed about me, I could not bring myself to believe that the wealth of any subject in Europe could have supplied the princely magnificence which burned and blazed around.
Although, as I say, the sun had arisen, yet the room was still brilliantly lighted up. I judge from this circumstance, as well as from an air of exhaustion71 in the countenance of my friend, that he had not retired72 to bed during the whole of the preceding night. In the architecture and embellishments of the chamber, the evident design had been to dazzle and astound73. Little attention had been paid to the decora of what is technically74 called keeping, or to the proprieties75 of nationality. The eye wandered from object to object, and rested upon none — neither the grotesques76 of the Greek painters, nor the sculptures of the best Italian days, nor the huge carvings77 of untutored Egypt. Rich draperies in every part of the room trembled to the vibration78 of low, melancholy79 music, whose origin was not to be discovered. The senses were oppressed by mingled80 and conflicting perfumes, reeking81 up from strange convolute censers, together with multitudinous flaring82 and flickering83 tongues of emerald and violet fire. The rays of the newly, risen sun poured in upon the whole, through windows formed each of a single pane84 of crimson-tinted glass. Glancing to and fro, in a thousand reflections, from curtains which rolled from their cornices like cataracts85 of molten silver, the beams of natural glory mingled at length fitfully with the artificial light, and lay weltering in subdued88 masses upon a carpet of rich, liquid-looking cloth of Chili89 gold.
“Ha! ha! ha! — ha! ha! ha!"— laughed the proprietor90, motioning me to a seat as I entered the room, and throwing himself back at full length upon an ottoman. “I see,” said he, perceiving that I could not immediately reconcile myself to the bienseance of so singular a welcome —“I see you are astonished at my apartment — at my statues — my pictures — my originality91 of conception in architecture and upholstery — absolutely drunk, eh? with my magnificence? But pardon me, my dear sir, (here his tone of voice dropped to the very spirit of cordiality,) pardon me for my uncharitable laughter. You appeared so utterly astonished. Besides, some things are so completely ludicrous that a man must laugh or die. To die laughing must be the most glorious of all glorious deaths! Sir Thomas More — a very fine man was Sir Thomas More — Sir Thomas More died laughing, you remember. Also in the Absurdities92 of Ravisius Textor, there is a long list of characters who came to the same magnificent end. Do you know, however,” continued he musingly93, “that at Sparta (which is now Palaeochori,) at Sparta, I say, to the west of the citadel94, among a chaos95 of scarcely visible ruins, is a kind of socle, upon which are still legible the letters ‘LASM’. They are undoubtedly96 part of ‘GELASMA’. Now at Sparta were a thousand temples and shrines98 to a thousand different divinities. How exceedingly strange that the altar of Laughter should have survived all the others! But in the present instance,” he resumed, with a singular alteration99 of voice and manner, “I have no right to be merry at your expense. You might well have been amazed. Europe cannot produce anything so fine as this, my little regal cabinet. My other apartments are by no means of the same order; mere100 ultras of fashionable insipidity101. This is better than fashion — is it not? Yet this has but to be seen to become the rage — that is, with those who could afford it at the cost of their entire patrimony102. I have guarded, however, against any such profanation103. With one exception you are the only human being besides myself and my valet, who has been admitted within the mysteries of these imperial precincts, since they have been bedizened as you see!”
I bowed in acknowledgment; for the overpowering sense of splendor and perfume, and music, together with the unexpected eccentricity104 of his address and manner, prevented me from expressing, in words, my appreciation105 of what I might have construed106 into a compliment.
“Here,” he resumed, arising and leaning on my arm as he sauntered around the apartment, “here are paintings from the Greeks to Cimabue, and from Cimabue to the present hour. Many are chosen, as you see, with little deference107 to the opinions of Virtu. They are all, however, fitting tapestry108 for a chamber such as this. Here too, are some chefs d’oeuvre of the unknown great — and here unfinished designs by men, celebrated109 in their day, whose very names the perspicacity110 of the academies has left to silence and to me. What think you,” said he, turning abruptly111 as he spoke —“what think you of this Madonna della Pieta?”
It is Guido’s own!” I said with all the enthusiasm of my nature, for I had been poring intently over its surpassing loveliness. “It is Guido’s own! — how could you have obtained it? — she is undoubtedly in painting what the Venus is in sculpture.”
“Ha!” said he thoughtfully, “the Venus — the beautiful Venus? — the Venus of the Medici? — she of the diminutive112 head and the gilded113 hair? Part of the left arm (here his voice dropped so as to be heard with difficulty,) and all the right are restorations, and in the coquetry of that right arm lies, I think, the quintessence of all affectation. Give me the Canova! The Apollo, too! — is a copy — there can be no doubt of it — blind fool that I am, who cannot behold the boasted inspiration of the Apollo! I cannot help — pity me! — I cannot help preferring the Antinous. Was it not Socrates who said that the statuary found his statue in the block of marble? Then Michael Angelo was by no means original in his couplet —
‘Non ha l’ottimo artista alcun concetto
Che tin marmo solo in se non circonscriva.’”
It has been, or should be remarked, that, in the manner of the true gentleman, we are always aware of a difference from the bearing of the vulgar, without being at once precisely114 able to determine in what such difference consists. Allowing the remark to have applied115 in its full force to the outward demeanor116 of my acquaintance, I felt it, on that eventful morning, still more fully86 applicable to his moral temperament117 and character. Nor can I better define that peculiarity118 of spirit which seemed to place him so essentially119 apart from all other human beings, than by calling it a habit of intense and continual thought, pervading120 even his most trivial actions — intruding121 upon his moments of dalliance — and interweaving itself with his very flashes of merriment — like adders122 which writhe123 from out the eyes of the grinning masks in the cornices around the temples of Persepolis.
I could not help, however, repeatedly observing, through the mingled tone of levity124 and solemnity with which he rapidly descanted upon matters of little importance, a certain air of trepidation125 — a degree of nervous unction in action and in speech — an unquiet excitability of manner which appeared to me at all times unaccountable, and upon some occasions even filled me with alarm. Frequently, too, pausing in the middle of a sentence whose commencement he had apparently126 forgotten, he seemed to be listening in the deepest attention, as if either in momentary127 expectation of a visitor, or to sounds, which must have had existence in his imagination alone.
It was during one of these reveries or pauses of apparent abstraction, that, in turning over a page of the poet and scholar Politian’s beautiful tragedy “The Orfeo,” (the first native Italian tragedy,) which lay near me upon an ottoman, I discovered a passage underlined in pencil. It was a passage towards the end of the third act — a passage of the most heart-stirring excitement — a passage which, although tainted128 with impurity129, no man shall read without a thrill of novel emotion — no woman without a sigh. The whole page was blotted130 with fresh tears, and, upon the opposite interleaf, were the following English lines, written in a hand so very different from the peculiar characters of my acquaintance, that I had some difficulty in recognising it as his own.
Thou wast that all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine —
A green isle131 in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine97,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers;
And all the flowers were mine.
Ah, dream too bright to last;
Ah, starry132 Hope that didst arise
But to be overcast133!
A voice from out the Future cries
“Onward!"— but o’er the Past
(Dim gulf134!) my spirit hovering135 lies,
Mute, motionless, aghast!
For alas! alas! me
The light of life is o’er.
“No more-no more-no more,”
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore,)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!
Now all my hours are trances;
And all my nightly dreams
Are where the dark eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams,
In what ethereal dances,
By what Italian streams.
Alas! for that accursed time
They bore thee o’er the billow,
For Love to titled age and crime,
And an unholy pillow —
From me, and from our misty136 clime,
Where weeps the silver willow137!
That these lines were written in English — a language with which I had not believed their author acquainted — afforded me little matter for surprise. I was too well aware of the extent of his acquirements, and of the singular pleasure he took in concealing138 them from observation, to be astonished at any similar discovery; but the place of date, I must confess, occasioned me no little amazement140. It had been originally written London, and afterwards carefully overscored — not, however, so effectually as to conceal139 the word from a scrutinizing141 eye. I say this occasioned me no little amazement; for I well remember that, in a former conversation with a friend, I particularly inquired if he had at any time met in London the Marchesa di Mentoni, (who for some years previous to her marriage had resided in that city,) when his answer, if I mistake not, gave me to understand that he had never visited the metropolis142 of Great Britain. I might as well here mention, that I have more than once heard, (without of course giving credit to a report involving so many improbabilities,) that the person of whom I speak was not only by birth, but in education, an Englishman.
“There is one painting,” said he, without being aware of my notice of the tragedy —“there is still one painting which you have not seen.” And throwing aside a drapery, he discovered a full length portrait of the Marchesa Aphrodite.
Human art could have done no more in the delineation143 of her superhuman beauty. The same ethereal figure which stood before me the preceding night upon the steps of the Ducal Palace, stood before me once again. But in the expression of the countenance, which was beaming all over with smiles, there still lurked144 (incomprehensible anomaly!) that fitful stain of melancholy which will ever be found inseparable from the perfection of the beautiful. Her right arm lay folded over her bosom. With her left she pointed145 downward to a curiously146 fashioned vase. One small, fairy foot, alone visible, barely touched the earth — and, scarcely discernible in the brilliant atmosphere which seemed to encircle and enshrine her loveliness, floated a pair of the most delicately imagined wings. My glance fell from the painting to the figure of my friend, and the vigorous words of Chapman’s Bussy D’Ambois quivered instinctively147 upon my lips:
“He is up
There like a Roman statue! He will stand
Till Death hath made him marble!”
“Come!” he said at length, turning towards a table of richly enamelled and massive silver, upon which were a few goblets149 fantastically stained, together with two large Etruscan vases, fashioned in the same extraordinary model as that in the foreground of the portrait, and filled with what I supposed to be Johannisberger. “Come!” he said abruptly, “let us drink! It is early — but let us drink. It is indeed early,” he continued, musingly, as a cherub150 with a heavy golden hammer, made the apartment ring with the first hour after sunrise —“It is indeed early, but what matters it? let us drink! Let us pour out an offering to yon solemn sun which these gaudy151 lamps and censers are so eager to subdue87!” And, having made me pledge him in a bumper152, he swallowed in rapid succession several goblets of the wine.
“To dream”, he continued, resuming the tone of his desultory153 conversation, as he held up to the rich light of a censer one of the magnificent vases —“to dream has been the business of my life. I have therefore framed for myself, as you see, a bower154 of dreams. In the heart of Venice could I have erected155 a better? You behold around you, it is true, a medley156 of architectural embellishments. The chastity of Ionia is offended by antediluvian157 devices, and the sphynxes of Egypt are outstretched upon carpets of gold. Yet the effect is incongruous to the timid alone. Proprieties of place, and especially of time, are the bugbears which terrify mankind from the contemplation of the magnificent. Once I was myself a decorist: but that sublimation158 of folly159 has palled160 upon my soul. All this is now the fitter for my purpose. Like these arabesque161 censers, my spirit is writhing162 in fire, and the delirium163 of this scene is fashioning me for the wilder visions of that land of real dreams whither I am now rapidly departing.” He here paused abruptly, bent164 his head to his bosom, and seemed to listen to a sound which I could not hear. At length, erecting165 his frame, he looked upwards166 and ejaculated the lines of the Bishop of Chichester:—
Stay for me there! I will not fail
To meet thee in that hollow vale.
In the next instant, confessing the power of the wine, he threw himself at full length upon an ottoman.
A quick step was now heard upon the staircase, and a loud knock at the door rapidly succeeded. I was hastening to anticipate a second disturbance167, when a page of Mentoni’s household burst into the room, and faltered168 out, in a voice choking with emotion, the incoherent words, “My mistress! — my mistress! — poisoned! — poisoned! Oh beautiful — oh beautiful Aphrodite!”
Bewildered, I flew to the ottoman, and endeavored to arouse the sleeper169 to a sense of the startling intelligence. But his limbs were rigid — his lips were livid — his lately beaming eyes were riveted in death. I staggered back toward the table — my hand fell upon a cracked and blackened goblet148 — and a consciousness of the entire and terrible truth flashed suddenly over my soul.
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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squandering
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的现在分词 ) | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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gondola
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| n.威尼斯的平底轻舟；飞船的吊船 | |
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10
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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condor
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| n.秃鹰；秃鹰金币 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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intriguing
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| adj.有趣的；迷人的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的现在分词)；激起…的好奇心 | |
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murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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25
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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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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32
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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33
spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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34
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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35
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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36
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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37
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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38
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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39
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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40
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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41
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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42
drenching
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| n.湿透v.使湿透( drench的现在分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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43
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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44
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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45
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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46
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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47
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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48
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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49
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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50
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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51
enthrall
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| vt.迷住，吸引住；使感到非常愉快 | |
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52
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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53
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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54
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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55
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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56
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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57
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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58
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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59
wield
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| vt.行使，运用，支配；挥，使用(武器等) | |
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60
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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61
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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62
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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63
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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64
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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65
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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66
solicited
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| v.恳求( solicit的过去式和过去分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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67
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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68
mosaics
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| n.马赛克( mosaic的名词复数 )；镶嵌；镶嵌工艺；镶嵌图案 | |
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69
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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70
luxuriousness
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71
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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72
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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73
astound
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| v.使震惊，使大吃一惊 | |
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74
technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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75
proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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76
grotesques
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| n.衣着、打扮、五官等古怪，不协调的样子( grotesque的名词复数 ) | |
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77
carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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78
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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79
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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80
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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81
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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82
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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83
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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84
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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85
cataracts
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| n.大瀑布( cataract的名词复数 )；白内障 | |
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86
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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87
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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88
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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89
chili
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| n.辣椒 | |
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90
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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91
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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92
absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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93
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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94
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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95
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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96
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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97
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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98
shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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99
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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100
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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101
insipidity
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| n.枯燥无味，清淡，无精神；无生气状 | |
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102
patrimony
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| n.世袭财产，继承物 | |
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103
profanation
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| n.亵渎 | |
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104
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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105
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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106
construed
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| v.解释（陈述、行为等）( construe的过去式和过去分词 )；翻译，作句法分析 | |
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107
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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108
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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109
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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110
perspicacity
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| n. 敏锐, 聪明, 洞察力 | |
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111
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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112
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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113
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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114
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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115
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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116
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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117
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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118
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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119
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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120
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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121
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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122
adders
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| n.加法器，（欧洲产）蝰蛇（小毒蛇），（北美产无毒的）猪鼻蛇( adder的名词复数 ) | |
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123
writhe
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| vt.挣扎，痛苦地扭曲；vi.扭曲，翻腾，受苦；n.翻腾，苦恼 | |
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124
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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125
trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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126
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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127
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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128
tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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129
impurity
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| n.不洁，不纯，杂质 | |
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130
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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131
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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132
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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133
overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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134
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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135
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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136
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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137
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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138
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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139
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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140
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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141
scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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142
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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143
delineation
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| n.记述；描写 | |
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144
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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145
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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146
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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147
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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148
goblet
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| n.高脚酒杯 | |
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149
goblets
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| n.高脚酒杯( goblet的名词复数 ) | |
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150
cherub
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| n.小天使，胖娃娃 | |
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151
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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152
bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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153
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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154
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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155
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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156
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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157
antediluvian
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| adj.史前的，陈旧的 | |
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158
sublimation
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| n.升华，升华物，高尚化 | |
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159
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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160
palled
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| v.（因过多或过久而）生厌，感到乏味，厌烦( pall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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161
arabesque
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| n.阿拉伯式花饰；adj.阿拉伯式图案的 | |
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162
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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163
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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164
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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165
erecting
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| v.使直立，竖起( erect的现在分词 )；建立 | |
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166
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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167
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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168
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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169
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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