It has sometimes seemed to me as if fortune had given me a stage-box at another and grander spectacle, and I had been suffered to see this VENICE, which is to other cities like the pleasant improbability of the theatre to every-day, commonplace life, to much the same effect as that melodrama13 in Padua. I could not, indeed, dwell three years in the place without learning to know it differently from those writers who have described it in romances, poems, and hurried books of travel, nor help seeing from my point of observation the sham and cheapness with which Venice is usually brought out, if I may so speak, in literature. At the same time, it has never lost for me its claim upon constant surprise and regard, nor the fascination14 of its excellent beauty, its peerless picturesqueness15, its sole and wondrous16 grandeur17. It is true that the streets in Venice are canals; and yet you can walk to any part of the city, and need not take boat whenever you go out of doors, as I once fondly thought you must. But after all, though I find dry land enough in it, I do not find the place less unique, less a mystery, or less a charm. By day, the canals are still the main thoroughfares; and if these avenues are not so full of light and color as some would have us believe, they, at least, do not smell so offensively as others pretend. And by night, they are still as dark and silent as when the secret vengeance18 of the Republic plunged19 its victims into the ungossiping depths of the Canalazzo!
Did the vengeance of the Republic ever do any such thing?
Possibly. In Venice one learns not quite to question that reputation for vindictive20 and gloomy cruelty alien historians have given to a government which endured so many centuries in the willing obedience21 of its subjects; but to think that the careful student of the old Republican system will condemn22 it for faults far different from those for which it is chiefly blamed. At all events, I find it hard to understand why, if the Republic was an oligarchy23 utterly24 selfish and despotic, it has left to all classes of Venetians so much regret and sorrow for its fall.
So, if the reader care to follow me to my stage-box, I imagine he will hardly see the curtain rise upon just the Venice of his dreams—the Venice of Byron, of Rogers, and Cooper; or upon the Venice of his prejudices—the merciless Venice of Darù, and of the historians who follow him. But I still hope that he will be pleased with the Venice he sees; and will think with me that the place loses little in the illusion removed; and—to take leave of our theatrical25 metaphor—I promise to fatigue26 him with no affairs of my own, except as allusion27 to them may go to illustrate28 Life in Venice; and positively29 he shall suffer no annoyance30 from the fleas31 and bugs32 which, in Latin countries, so often get from travelers’ beds into their books.
Let us mention here at the beginning some of the sentimental33 errors concerning the place, with which we need not trouble ourselves hereafter, but which no doubt form a large part of every one’s associations with the name of Venice. Let us take, for example, that pathetic swindle, the Bridge of Sighs. There are few, I fancy, who will hear it mentioned without connecting its mystery and secrecy34 with the taciturn justice of the Three, or some other cruel machinery of the Serenest35 Republic’s policy. When I entered it the first time I was at the pains to call about me the sad company of those who had passed its corridors from imprisonment36 to death; and, I doubt not, many excellent tourists have done the same. I was somewhat ashamed to learn afterward37 that I had, on this occasion, been in very low society, and that the melancholy38 assemblage which I then conjured40 up was composed entirely41 of honest rogues42, who might indeed have given as graceful43 and ingenious excuses for being in misfortune as the galley-slaves rescued by Don Quixote,—who might even have been very picturesque,—but who were not at all the material with which a well-regulated imagination would deal. The Bridge of Sighs was not built till the end of the sixteenth century, and no romantic episode of political imprisonment and punishment (except that of Antonio Foscarini) occurs in Venetian history later than that period. But the Bridge of Sighs could have nowise a savor45 of sentiment from any such episode, being, as it was, merely a means of communication between the Criminal Courts sitting in the Ducal Palace, and the Criminal Prison across the little canal. Housebreakers, cut-purse knaves46, and murderers do not commonly impart a poetic47 interest to places which have known them; and yet these are the only sufferers on whose Bridge of Sighs the whole sentimental world has looked with pathetic sensation ever since Byron drew attention to it. The name of the bridge was given by the people from that opulence48 of compassion49 which enables the Italians to pity even rascality50 in difficulties. 1
Political offenders51 were not confined in the “prison on each hand” of the poet, but in the famous pozzi (literally, wells) or dungeons52 under the Ducal Palace. And what fables53 concerning these cells have not been uttered and believed! For my part, I prepared my coldest chills for their exploration, and I am not sure that before I entered their gloom some foolish and lying literature was not shaping itself in my mind, to be afterward written out as my Emotions on looking at them. I do not say now that they are calculated to enamor the unimpounded spectator with prison-life; but they are certainly far from being as bad as I hoped. They are not joyously54 light nor particularly airy, but their occupants could have suffered no extreme physical discomfort55; and the thick wooden casing of the interior walls evidences at least the intention of the state to inflict56 no wanton hardships of cold and damp.
But on whose account had I to be interested in the pozzi? It was difficult to learn, unless I took the word of sentimental hearsay57. I began with Marin Falier, but history would not permit the doge to languish58 in these dungeons for a moment. He was imprisoned60 in the apartments of state, and during one night only. His fellow-conspirators were hanged nearly as fast as taken.
Failing so signally with Falier, I tried several other political prisoners of sad and famous memory with scarcely better effect. To a man, they struggled to shun61 the illustrious captivity62 designed them, and escaped from the pozzi by every artifice63 of fact and figure.
The Carraras of Padua were put to death in the city of Venice, and their story is the most pathetic and romantic in Venetian history. But it was not the cells under the Ducal Palace which witnessed their cruel taking-off: they were strangled in the prison formerly64 existing at the top of the palace, called the Torresella. 2 It is possible, however, that Jacopo Foscari may have been confined in the pozzi at different times about the middle of the fifteenth century. With his fate alone, then, can the horror of these cells be satisfactorily associated by those who relish65 the dark romance of Venetian annals; for it is not to be expected that the less tragic66 fortunes of Carlo Zeno and Vittore Pisani, who may also have been imprisoned in the pozzi, can move the true sentimentalizer. Certainly, there has been anguish59 enough in the prisons of the Ducal Palace, but we know little of it by name, and cannot confidently relate it to any great historic presence.
Touching67 the Giant’s Stairs in the court of the palace, the inexorable dates would not permit me to rest in the delusion68 that the head of Marin Falier had once bloodily69 stained them as it rolled to the ground—at the end of Lord Byron’s tragedy. Nor could I keep unimpaired my vision of the Chief of the Ten brandishing70 the sword of justice, as he proclaimed the traitor’s death to the people from between the two red columns in the southern gallery of the palace;—that fa?ade was not built till nearly a century later.
I suppose,—always judging by my own average experience,—that besides these gloomy associations, the name of Venice will conjure39 up scenes of brilliant and wanton gayety, and that in the foreground of the brightest picture will be the Carnival71 of Venice, full of antic delight, romantic adventure, and lawless prank72. But the carnival, with all the old merry-making life of the city, is now utterly obsolete73, and, in this way, the conventional, masquerading, pleasure-loving Venice is become as gross a fiction as if, like that other conventional Venice of which I have but spoken, it had never existed. There is no greater social dullness and sadness, on land or sea, than in contemporary Venice.
The causes of this change lie partly in the altered character of the whole world’s civilization, partly in the increasing poverty of the city, doomed74 four hundred years ago to commercial decay, and chiefly (the Venetians would be apt to tell you wholly) in the implacable anger, the inconsolable discontent, with which the people regard their present political condition.
If there be more than one opinion among men elsewhere concerning the means by which Austria acquired Venetia and the tenure75 by which she holds the province, there would certainly seem to be no division on the question in Venice. To the stranger first inquiring into public feeling, there is something almost sublime76 in the unanimity77 with which the Venetians appear to believe that these means were iniquitous78, and that this tenure is abominable79; and though shrewder study and carefuler observation will develop some interested attachment80 to the present government, and some interested opposition81 of it; though after-knowledge will discover, in the hatred82 of Austria, enough meanness, lukewarmness, and selfish ignorance to take off its sublimity83, the hatred is still found marvelously unanimous and bitter. I speak advisedly, and with no disposition84 to discuss the question or exaggerate the fact. Exercising at Venice official functions by permission and trust of the Austrian government, I cannot regard the cessation of those functions as release from obligations both to that government and my own, which render it improper85 for me, so long as the Austrians remain in Venice, to criticize their rule, or contribute, by comment on existing things, to embitter86 the feeling against them elsewhere. I may, nevertheless, speak dispassionately of facts of the abnormal social and political state of the place; and I can certainly do this, for the present situation is so disagreeable in many ways to the stranger forced to live there,—the inappeasable hatred of the Austrians by the Italians is so illiberal87 in application to those in any wise consorting88 with them, and so stupid and puerile89 in many respects, that I think the annoyance which it gives the foreigner might well damp any passion with which he was disposed to speak of its cause.
This hatred of the Austrians dates in its intensity90 from the defeat of patriotic91 hopes of union with Italy in 1859, when Napoleon found the Adriatic at Peschiera, and the peace of Villafranca was concluded. But it is not to be supposed that a feeling so general, and so thoroughly92 interwoven with Venetian character, is altogether recent. Consigned93 to the Austrians by Napoleon I., confirmed in the subjection into which she fell a second time after Napoleon’s ruin, by the treaties of the Holy Alliance, defeated in several attempts to throw off her yoke94, and loaded with heavier servitude after the fall of the short-lived Republic of 1849,—Venice has always hated her masters with an exasperation95 deepened by each remove from the hope of independence, and she now detests97 them with a rancor98 which no concession99 short of absolute relinquishment100 of dominion101 would appease102.
Instead, therefore, of finding that public gayety and private hospitality in Venice for which the city was once famous, the stranger finds himself planted between two hostile camps, with merely the choice of sides open to him. Neutrality is solitude103 and friendship with neither party; society is exclusive association with the Austrians or with the Italians. The latter do not spare one of their own number if he consorts104 with their masters, and though a foreigner might expect greater allowance, it is seldom shown to him. To be seen in the company of officers is enmity to Venetian freedom, and in the case of Italians it is treason to country and to race. Of course, in a city where there is a large garrison105 and a great many officers who have nothing else to do, there is inevitably106 some international love-making, although the Austrian officers are rigidly107 excluded from association with the citizens. But the Italian who marries an Austrian severs108 the dearest ties that bind109 her to life, and remains110 an exile in the heart of her country. Her friends mercilessly cast her off, as they cast off every body who associates with the dominant111 race. In rare cases I have known Italians to receive foreigners who had Austrian friends, but this with the explicit112 understanding that there was to be no sign of recognition if they met them in the company of these detested114 acquaintance.
There are all degrees of intensity in Venetian hatred, and after hearing certain persons pour out the gall44 of bitterness upon the Austrians, you may chance to hear these persons spoken of as tepid115 in their patriotism116 by yet more fiery117 haters. Yet it must not be supposed that the Italians hate the Austrians as individuals. On the contrary, they have rather a liking118 for them—rather a contemptuous liking, for they think them somewhat slow and dull-witted—and individually the Austrians are amiable119 people, and try not to give offence. The government is also very strict in its control of the military. I have never seen the slightest affront120 offered by a soldier to a citizen; and there is evidently no personal ill-will engendered121. The Austrians are simply hated as the means by which an alien and despotic government is imposed upon a people believing themselves born for freedom and independence. This hatred, then, is a feeling purely122 political, and there is political machinery by which it is kept in a state of perpetual tension.
The Comitato Veneto is a body of Venetians residing within the province and abroad, who have charge of the Italian interests, and who work in every way to promote union with the dominions123 of Victor Emanuel. They live for the most part in Venice, where they have a secret press for the publication of their addresses and proclamations, and where they remain unknown to the police, upon whose spies they maintain an espionage124. On every occasion of interest, the Committee is sure to make its presence felt; and from time to time persons find themselves in the possession of its printed circulars, stamped with the Committee’s seal; but no one knows how or whence they came. Constant arrests of suspected persons are made, but no member of the Committee has yet been identified; and it is said that the mysterious body has its agents in every department of the government, who keep it informed of inimical action. The functions of the Committee are multiplied and various. It takes care that on all patriotic anniversaries (such as that of the establishment of the Republic in 1848, and that of the union of the Italian States under Victor Emanuel in 1860) salutes125 shall be fired in Venice, and a proper number of red, white, and green lights displayed. It inscribes126 revolutionary sentiments on the walls; and all attempts on the part of the Austrians to revive popular festivities are frustrated127 by the Committee, which causes petards to be exploded in the Place of St. Mark, and on the different promenades128. Even the churches are not exempt129 from these demonstrations131: I was present at the Te Deum performed on the Emperor’s birthday, in St. Mark’s, when the moment of elevating the host was signalized by the bursting of a petard in the centre of the cathedral. All this, which seems of questionable132 utility, and worse than questionable taste, is approved by the fiercer of the Italianissimi, and though possibly the strictness of the patriotic discipline in which the members of the Committee keep their fellow-citizens may gall some of them, yet any public demonstration130 of content, such as going to the opera, or to the Piazza133 while the Austrian band plays, is promptly134 discontinued at a warning from the Committee. It is, of course, the Committee’s business to keep the world informed of public feeling in Venice, and of each new act of Austrian severity. Its members are inflexible135 men, whose ability has been as frequently manifested as their patriotism.
The Venetians are now, therefore, a nation in mourning, and have, as I said, disused all their former pleasures and merry-makings. Every class, except a small part of the resident titled nobility (a great part of the nobility is in either forced or voluntary exile), seems to be comprehended by this feeling of despondency and suspense136. The poor of the city formerly found their respite137 and diversion in the numerous holidays which fell in different parts of the year, and which, though religious in their general character, were still inseparably bound up in their origin with ideas of patriotism and national glory. Such of these holidays as related to the victories and pride of the Republic naturally ended with her fall. Many others, however, survived this event in all their splendor138, but there is not one celebrated139 now as in other days. It is true that the churches still parade their pomps in the Piazza on the day of Corpus Christi; it is true that the bridges of boats are still built across the Canalazzo to the church of Our Lady of Salvation140, and across the Canal of the Giudecca to the temple of the Redeemer, on the respective festivals of these churches; but the concourse is always meagre, and the mirth is forced and ghastly. The Italianissimi have so far imbued141 the people with their own ideas and feelings, that the recurrence142 of the famous holidays now merely awakens143 them to lamentations over the past and vague longings145 for the future.
As for the carnival, which once lasted six months of the year, charming hither all the idlers of the world by its peculiar146 splendor and variety of pleasure, it does not, as I said, any longer exist. It is dead, and its shabby, wretched ghost is a party of beggars, hideously147 dressed out with masks and horns and women’s habits, who go from shop to shop droning forth148 a stupid song, and levying149 tribute upon the shopkeepers. The crowd through which these melancholy jesters pass, regards them with a pensive150 scorn, and goes about its business untempted by the delights of carnival.
All other social amusements have shared in greater or less degree the fate of the carnival. At some houses conversazioni are still held, and it is impossible that balls and parties should not now and then be given. But the greater number of the nobles and the richer of the professional classes lead for the most part a life of listless seclusion151, and attempts to lighten the general gloom and heaviness in any way are not looked upon with favor. By no sort of chance are Austrians, or Austriacanti ever invited to participate in the pleasures of Venetian society.
As the social life of Italy, and especially of Venice, was in great part to be once enjoyed at the theatres, at the caffè, and at the other places of public resort, so is its absence now to be chiefly noted in those places. No lady of perfect standing113 among her people goes to the opera, and the men never go in the boxes, but if they frequent the theatre at all, they take places in the pit, in order that the house may wear as empty and dispirited a look as possible. Occasionally a bomb is exploded in the theatre, as a note of reminder152, and as means of keeping away such of the nobles as are not enemies of the government. As it is less easy for the Austrians to participate in the diversion of comedy, it is a less offence to attend the comedy, though even this is not good Italianissimism. In regard to the caffè there is a perfectly understood system by which the Austrians go to one, and the Italians to another; and Florian’s, in the Piazza, seems to be the only common ground in the city on which the hostile forces consent to meet. This is because it is thronged153 with foreigners of all nations, and to go there is not thought a demonstration of any kind. But the other caffè in the Piazza do not enjoy Florian’s cosmopolitan154 immunity155, and nothing would create more wonder in Venice than to see an Austrian officer at the Specchi, unless, indeed, it were the presence of a good Italian at the Quadri.
It is in the Piazza that the tacit demonstration of hatred and discontent chiefly takes place. Here, thrice a week, in winter and summer, the military band plays that exquisite156 music for which the Austrians are famous. The selections are usually from Italian operas, and the attraction is the hardest of all others for the music-loving Italian to resist. But he does resist it. There are some noble ladies who have not entered the Piazza while the band was playing there, since the fall of the Republic of 1849; and none of good standing for patriotism has attended the concerts since the treaty of Villafranca in ‘59. Until very lately, the promenaders in the Piazza were exclusively foreigners, or else the families of such government officials as were obliged to show themselves there. Last summer, however, before the Franco-Italian convention for the evacuation of Rome revived the drooping157 hopes of the Venetians, they had begun visibly to falter158 in their long endurance. But this was, after all, only a slight and transient weakness. As a general thing, now, they pass from the Piazza when the music begins, and walk upon the long quay159 at the sea-side of the Ducal Palace; or if they remain in the Piazza they pace up and down under the arcades160 on either side; for Venetian patriotism makes a delicate distinction between listening to the Austrian band in the Piazza and hearing it under the Procuratie, forbidding the first and permitting the last. As soon as the music ceases the Austrians disappear, and the Italians return to the Piazza.
But since the catalogue of demonstrations cannot be made full, it need not be made any longer. The political feeling in Venice affects her prosperity in a far greater degree than may appear to those who do not understand how large an income the city formerly derived161 from making merry. The poor have to lament144 not merely the loss of their holidays, but also of the fat employments and bountiful largess which these occasions threw into their hands. With the exile or the seclusion of the richer families, and the reluctance162 of foreigners to make a residence of the gloomy and dejected city, the trade of the shopkeepers has fallen off; the larger commerce of the place has also languished163 and dwindled164 year by year; while the cost of living has constantly increased, and heavier burdens of taxation165 have been laid upon the impoverished166 and despondent167 people. And in all this, Venice is but a type of the whole province of Venetia.
The alien life to be found in the city is scarcely worth noting. The Austrians have a casino, and they give balls and parties, and now and then make some public manifestation168 of gayety. But they detest96 Venice as a place of residence, being naturally averse169 to living in the midst of a people who shun them like a pestilence170. Other foreigners, as I said, are obliged to take sides for or against the Venetians, and it is amusing enough to find the few English residents divided into Austriacanti and Italianissimi. 3
Even the consuls171 of the different nations, who are in every way bound to neutrality and indifference172, are popularly reputed to be of one party or the other, and my predecessor173, whose unhappy knowledge of German threw him on his arrival among people of that race, was always regarded as the enemy of Venetian freedom, though I believe his principles were of the most vivid republican tint174 in the United States.
The present situation has now endured five years, with only slight modifications175 by time, and only faint murmurs176 from some of the more impatient, that bisogna, una volta o l’altra, romper il chiodo, (sooner or later the nail must be broken.) As the Venetians are a people of indomitable perseverance177, long schooled to obstinacy178 by oppression, I suppose they will hold out till their union with the kingdom of Italy. They can do nothing of themselves, but they seem content to wait forever in their present gloom. How deeply their attitude affects their national character I shall inquire hereafter, when I come to look somewhat more closely at the spirit of their demonstration.
For the present, it is certain that the discontent of the people has its peculiar effect upon the city as the stranger sees its life, casting a glamour179 over it all, making it more and more ghostly and sad, and giving it a pathetic charm which I would fain transfer to my pages; but failing that, would pray the reader to remember as a fact to which I must be faithful in all my descriptions of Venice.
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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picturesqueness
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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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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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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oligarchy
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| n.寡头政治 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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fleas
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| n.跳蚤( flea的名词复数 )；爱财如命；没好气地（拒绝某人的要求） | |
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bugs
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| adj.疯狂的，发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 )；病菌；虫子；[计算机]（制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的）错误 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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serenest
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| serene（沉静的，宁静的，安宁的）的最高级形式 | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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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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conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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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
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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45
savor
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| vt.品尝，欣赏；n.味道，风味；情趣，趣味 | |
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46
knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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47
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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48
opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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49
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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50
rascality
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| 流氓性，流氓集团 | |
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51
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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52
dungeons
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| n.地牢( dungeon的名词复数 ) | |
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53
fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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54
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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55
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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56
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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57
hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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58
languish
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| vi.变得衰弱无力，失去活力，（植物等）凋萎 | |
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59
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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60
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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62
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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63
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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64
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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65
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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66
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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67
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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68
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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69
bloodily
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| adv.出血地；血淋淋地；残忍地；野蛮地 | |
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70
brandishing
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| v.挥舞( brandish的现在分词 )；炫耀 | |
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71
carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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72
prank
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| n.开玩笑，恶作剧；v.装饰；打扮；炫耀自己 | |
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73
obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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74
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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75
tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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76
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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77
unanimity
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| n.全体一致，一致同意 | |
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78
iniquitous
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| adj.不公正的；邪恶的；高得出奇的 | |
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79
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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80
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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81
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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82
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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83
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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84
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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85
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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86
embitter
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| v.使苦；激怒 | |
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87
illiberal
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| adj.气量狭小的，吝啬的 | |
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88
consorting
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| v.结伴( consort的现在分词 )；交往；相称；调和 | |
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89
puerile
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| adj.幼稚的，儿童的 | |
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90
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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91
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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92
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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93
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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94
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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95
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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96
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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97
detests
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的第三人称单数 ) | |
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98
rancor
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| n.深仇，积怨 | |
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99
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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100
relinquishment
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| n.放弃；撤回；停止 | |
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101
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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102
appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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103
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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104
consorts
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| n.配偶( consort的名词复数 )；（演奏古典音乐的）一组乐师；一组古典乐器；一起v.结伴( consort的第三人称单数 )；交往；相称；调和 | |
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105
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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106
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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107
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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108
severs
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的第三人称单数 )；断，裂 | |
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109
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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110
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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111
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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112
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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113
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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114
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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116
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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117
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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118
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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119
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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120
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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121
engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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123
dominions
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| 统治权( dominion的名词复数 )； 领土； 疆土； 版图 | |
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124
espionage
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| n.间谍行为，谍报活动 | |
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125
salutes
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| n.致敬，欢迎，敬礼( salute的名词复数 )v.欢迎，致敬( salute的第三人称单数 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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126
inscribes
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的第三人称单数 ) | |
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127
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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128
promenades
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| n.人行道( promenade的名词复数 )；散步场所；闲逛v.兜风( promenade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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129
exempt
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| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
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130
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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131
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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132
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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133
piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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134
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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135
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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136
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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137
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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138
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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139
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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140
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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141
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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142
recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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143
awakens
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的第三人称单数 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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144
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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145
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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146
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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147
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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148
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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149
levying
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| 征（兵）( levy的现在分词 )； 索取； 发动（战争）； 征税 | |
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150
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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151
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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152
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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153
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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154
cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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155
immunity
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| n.优惠；免除；豁免，豁免权 | |
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156
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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157
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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158
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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159
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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160
arcades
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| n.商场( arcade的名词复数 )；拱形走道（两旁有商店或娱乐设施）；连拱廊；拱形建筑物 | |
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161
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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162
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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163
languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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164
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165
taxation
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| n.征税，税收，税金 | |
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166
impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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167
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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168
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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169
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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170
pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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171
consuls
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| 领事( consul的名词复数 )； （古罗马共和国时期）执政官 （古罗马共和国及其军队的最高首长，同时共有两位，每年选举一次） | |
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172
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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173
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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174
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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175
modifications
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| n.缓和( modification的名词复数 )；限制；更改；改变 | |
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176
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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177
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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178
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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179
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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