Of all the open spaces in the city, that before the Church of St. Mark alone bears the name of Piazza, and the rest are called merely campi, or fields. But if the company of the noblest architecture can give honor, the Piazza San Marco merits its distinction, not in Venice only, but in the whole world; for I fancy that no other place in the world is set in such goodly bounds. Its westward2 length is terminated by the Imperial Palace; its lateral3 borders are formed by lines of palace called the New Procuratie on the right, and the Old Procuratie on the left; 10 and the Church of St. Mark fills up almost its whole width upon the east, leaving space enough, however, for a glimpse of the Gothic perfection of the Ducal Palace. The place then opens southward with the name of Piazzetta, between the eastern fa?ade of the Ducal Palace and the classic front of the Libreria Vecchia, and expands and ends at last on the mole4, where stand the pillars of St. Mark and St. Theodore; and then this mole, passing the southern fa?ade of the Doge’s Palace, stretches away to the Public Gardens at the eastern extremity6 of the city, over half a score of bridges, between lines of houses and shipping—stone and wooden walls—in the long, crescent-shaped quay7 called Riva degli Schiavoni. Looking northward8 up the Piazzetta from the Molo, the vision traverses the eastern breadth of the Piazza, and rests upon the Clock Tower, gleaming with blue and gold, on which the bronze Giants beat the hours; or it climbs the great mass of the Campanile San Marco, standing9 apart from the church at the corner of the New Procuratie, and rising four hundred feet toward the sky—the sky where the Venetian might well place his heaven, as the Moors10 bounded Paradise in the celestial11 expanse that roofed Granada.
My first lodging12 was but a step out of the Piazza, and this vicinity brought me early into familiar acquaintance with its beauty. But I never, during three years, passed through it in my daily walks, without feeling as freshly as at first the greatness of this beauty. The church, which the mighty13 bell-tower and the lofty height of the palace-lines make to look low, is in nowise humbled14 by the contrast, but is like a queen enthroned amid upright reverence15. The religious sentiment is deeply appealed to, I think, in the interior of St. Mark’s; but if its interior is heaven’s, its exterior16, like a good man’s daily life, is earth’s; and it is this winning loveliness of earth that first attracts you to it, and when you emerge from its portals, you enter upon spaces of such sunny length and breadth, set round with such exquisite17 architecture, that it makes you glad to be living in this world. Before you expands the great Piazza, peopled with its various life; on your left, between the Pillars of the Piazzetta, swims the blue lagoon18, and overhead climb the arches, one above another, in excesses of fantastic grace.
Whatever could please, the Venetian seems to have brought hither and made part of his Piazza, that it might remain forever the city’s supreme19 grace; and so, though there are public gardens and several pleasant walks in the city, the great resort in summer and winter, by day and by night, is the Piazza San Marco. Its ground-level, under the Procuratie, is belted with a glittering line of shops and caffè, the most tasteful and brilliant in the world, and the arcades20 that pass round three of its sides are filled with loungers and shoppers, even when there is music by the Austrian bands; for, as we have seen, the purest patriot21 may then walk under the Procuratie, without stain to the principles which would be hopelessly blackened if he set foot in the Piazza. The absence of dust and noisy hoofs22 and wheels tempts23 social life out of doors in Venice more than in any other Italian city, though the tendency to this sort of expansion is common throughout Italy. Beginning with the warm days of early May, and continuing till the villeggiatura (the period spent at the country seat) interrupts it late in September, all Venice goes by a single impulse of dolce far niente, and sits gossiping at the doors of the innumerable caffè on the Riva degli Schiavoni, in the Piazza San Marco, and in the different squares in every part of the city. But, of course, the most brilliant scene of this kind is in St. Mark’s Place, which has a night-time glory indescribable, won from the light of uncounted lamps upon its architectural groups. The superb Imperial Palace—the sculptured, arcaded24, and pillared Procuratie—the Byzantine magic and splendor25 of the church—will it all be there when you come again to-morrow night? The unfathomable heaven above seems part of the place, for I think it is never so tenderly blue over any other spot of earth. And when the sky is blurred26 with clouds, shall not the Piazza vanish with the azure27?—People, I say, come to drink coffee, and eat ices here in the summer evenings, and then, what with the promenades28 in the arcades and in the Piazza, the music, the sound of feet, and the hum of voices, unbroken by the ruder uproar30 of cities where there are horses and wheels—the effect is that of a large evening party, and in this aspect the Piazza, is like a vast drawing-room.
I liked well to see that strange life, which even the stout31, dead-in-earnest little Bohemian musicians, piping in the centre of the Piazza, could not altogether substantialize, and which constantly took immateriality from the loveliness of its environment. In the winter the scene was the most purely32 Venetian, and in my first winter, when I had abandoned all thought of churches till spring, I settled down to steady habits of idleness and coffee, and contemplated33 the life of the Piazza.
By all odds34, the loungers at Florian’s were the most interesting, because they were the most various. People of all shades of politics met in the dainty little saloons, though there were shades of division even there, and they did not mingle35. The Italians carefully assorted36 themselves in a room furnished with green velvet37, and the Austrians and the Austriacanti frequented a red-velvet room. They were curious to look at, those tranquil38, indolent, Italian loafers, and I had an uncommon39 relish40 for them. They seldom spoke41 together, and when they did speak, they burst from silence into tumultuous controversy43, and then lapsed44 again into perfect silence. The elder among them sat with their hands carefully folded on the heads of their sticks, gazing upon the ground, or else buried themselves in the perusal46 of the French journals. The younger stood a good deal about the doorways47, and now and then passed a gentle, gentle jest with the elegant waiters in black coats and white cravats48, who hurried to and fro with the orders, and called them out in strident tones to the accountant at his little table; or sometimes these young idlers make a journey to the room devoted49 to ladies and forbidden to smokers50, looked long and deliberately51 in upon its loveliness, and then returned to the bosom52 of their taciturn companions. By chance I found them playing chess, but very rarely. They were all well-dressed, handsome men, with beards carefully cut, brilliant hats and boots, and conspicuously53 clean linen54. I used to wonder who they were, to what order of society they belonged, and whether they, like my worthless self, had never any thing else but lounging at Florian’s to do; but I really know none of these things to this day. Some men in Venice spend their noble, useful lives in this way, and it was the proud reply of a Venetian father, when asked of what profession his son was, ”è in Piazza!“ That was, he bore a cane55, wore light gloves, and stared from Florian’s windows at the ladies who went by.
At the Caffè Quadri, immediately across the Piazza, there was a scene of equal hopefulness. But there, all was a glitter of uniforms, and the idling was carried on with a great noise of conversation in Austrian-German. Heaven knows what it was all about, but I presume the talk was upon topics of mutual56 improvement, calculated to advance the interests of self-government and mankind. These officers were very comely57, intelligent-looking people with the most good-natured faces. They came and went restlessly, sitting down and knocking their steel scabbards against the tables, or rising and straddling off with their long swords kicking against their legs. They are the most stylish58 soldiers in the world, and one has no notion how ill they can dress when left to themselves, till one sees them in civil clothes.
Further up toward the Fabbrica Nuova (as the Imperial Palace is called), under the Procuratie Vecchie, is the Caffè Specchi, frequented only by young Italians, of an order less wealthy than those who go to Florian’s. Across from this caffè is that of the Emperor of Austria, resorted to chiefly by non-commissioned officers, and civilian59 officials of lower grade. You know the latter, at a glance, by their beard, which in Venice is an index to every man’s politics: no Austriacante wears the imperial, no Italianissimo shaves it. Next is the Caffè Suttil, rather Austrian, and frequented by Italian codini, or old fogies, in politics: gray old fellows, who caress60 their sticks with more constant zeal61 than even the elders at Florian’s. Quite at the other end of the Procuratie Nuove is the Caffè of the Greeks, a nation which I have commonly seen represented there by two or three Albanians with an Albanian boy, who, being dressed exactly like his father, curiously62 impressed me, as if he were the young of some Oriental animal—say a boy-elephant or infant camel.
I hope that the reader adds to this sketch63, even in the winter time, occasional tourists under the Procuratie, at the caffè, and in the shops, where the shop-keepers are devouring64 them with the keenness of an appetite unsated by the hordes65 of summer visitors. I hope that the reader also groups me fishermen, gondoliers, beggars, and loutish66 boys about the base of St. Mark’s, and at the feet of the three flag-staffs before the church; that he passes me a slatternly woman and a frowzy67 girl or two through the Piazza occasionally; and that he calls down the flocks of pigeons hovering68 near. I fancy the latter half ashamed to show themselves, as being aware that they are a great humbug69, and unrightfully in the guide-books.
Meantime, while I sit at Florian’s, sharing and studying the universal worthlessness about me, the brief winter passes, and the spring of the south—so unlike the ardent70 season of the north, where it burns full summer before the snows are dried upon the fields—descends upon the city and the sea. But except in the little gardens of the palaces, and where here and there a fig-tree lifts its head to peer over a lofty stone wall, the spring finds no response of swelling71 bud and unfolding leaf, and it is human nature alone which welcomes it. Perhaps it is for this reason that the welcome is more visible in Venice than elsewhere, and that here, where the effect of the season is narrowed and limited to men’s hearts, the joy it brings is all the keener and deeper. It is certain at least that the rapture72 is more demonstrative. The city at all times voiceful, seems to burst into song with the advent73 of these golden days and silver nights. Bands of young men go singing through the moonlit streets, and the Grand Canal re?choes the music of the parties of young girls as they drift along in the scarcely moving boats, and sing the glories of the lagoons74 and the loves of fishermen and gondoliers. In the Public Gardens they walk and sing; and wandering minstrels come forth75 before the caffè, and it is hard to get beyond the tinkling76 of guitars and the scraping of fiddles77. It is as if the city had put off its winter humor with its winter dress; and as Venice in winter is the dreariest78 and gloomiest place in the world, so in spring it is the fullest of joy and light. There is a pleasant bustle79 in the streets, a ceaseless clatter80 of feet over the stones of the squares, and a constant movement of boats upon the canals.
We say, in a cheap and careless way, that the southern peoples have no homes. But this is true only in a restricted sense, for the Italian, and the Venetian especially, makes the whole city his home in pleasant weather. No one remains81 under a roof who can help it; and now, as I said before, the fascinating out-door life begins. All day long the people sit and drink coffee and eat ices and gossip together before the caffè, and the soft midnight sees the same diligent82 idlers in their places. The promenade29 is at all seasons the favorite Italian amusement; it has its rigidly83 fixed84 hours, and its limits are also fixed: but now, in spring, even the promenade is a little lawless, and the crowds upon the Riva sometimes walk as far as the Public Gardens, and throng85 all the wider avenues and the Piazza; while young Venice comes to take the sun at St. Mark’s in the arms of its high-breasted nurses,—mighty country-women, who, in their bright costumes, their dangling86 chains, and head-dresses of gold and silver baubles87, stride through the Piazza with the high, free-stepping movement of blood-horses, and look like the women of some elder race of barbaric vigor88 and splendor, which, but for them, had passed away from our puny89, dull-clad times.
“è la stagion che ognuno s’innamora;“
and now young girls steal to their balconies, and linger there for hours, subtly conscious of the young men sauntering to and fro, and looking up at them from beneath. Now, in the shady little courts, the Venetian housewives, who must perforce remain indoors, put out their heads and gossip from window to window; while the pretty water-carriers, filling their buckets from the wells below, chatter90 and laugh at their work. Every street down which you look is likewise vocal91 with gossip; and if the picturesque92 projection93 of balconies, shutters94, and chimneys, of which the vista95 is full, hide the heads of the gossipers, be sure there is a face looking out of every window for all that, and the social, expansive presence of the season is felt there.
The poor, whose sole luxury the summer is, lavish96 the spring upon themselves unsparingly. They come forth from their dark dens5 in crumbling97 palaces and damp basements, and live in the sunlight and the welcome air. They work, they eat, they sleep out of doors. Mothers of families sit about their doors and spin, or walk volubly up and down with other slatternly matrons, armed with spindle and distaff while their raven-haired daughters, lounging near the threshold, chase the covert98 insects that haunt the tangles99 of the children’s locks. Within doors shines the bare bald head of the grandmother, who never ceases talking for an instant.
Before the winter passed, I had changed my habitation from rooms near the Piazza, to quarters on the Campo San Bartolomeo, through which the busiest street in Venice passes, from St. Mark’s to the Rialto Bridge. It is one of the smallest squares of the city, and the very noisiest, and here the spring came with intolerable uproar. I had taken my rooms early in March, when the tumult42 under my windows amounted only to a cheerful stir, and made company for me; but when the winter broke, and the windows were opened, I found that I had too much society.
Each campo in Venice is a little city, self-contained and independent. Each has its church, of which it was in the earliest times the burial-ground; and each within its limits compasses an apothecary’s shop, a mercer’s and draper’s shop, a blacksmith’s and shoemaker’s shop, a caffè more or less brilliant, a green-grocer’s and fruiterer’s, a family grocery—nay, there is also a second-hand100 merchant’s shop where you buy and sell every kind of worn-out thing at the lowest rates. Of course there is a coppersmith’s and a watchmaker’s, and pretty certainly a wood-carver’s and gilder’s, while without a barber’s shop no campo could preserve its integrity or inform itself of the social and political news of the day. In addition to all these elements of bustle and disturbance101, San Bartolomeo swarmed102 with the traffic and rang with the bargains of the Rialto market.
Here the small dealer103 makes up in boastful clamor for the absence of quantity and assortment104 in his wares105; and it often happens that an almost imperceptible boy, with a card of shirt-buttons and a paper of hair-pins, is much worse than the Anvil106 Chorus with real anvils107. Fishermen, with baskets of fish upon their heads; peddlers, with trays of housewife wares; louts who dragged baskets of lemons and oranges back and forth by long cords; men who sold water by the glass; charlatans108 who advertised cement for mending broken dishes, and drops for the cure of toothache; jugglers who spread their carpets and arranged their temples of magic upon the ground; organists who ground their organs; and poets of the people who brought out new songs, and sang and sold them to the crowd;—these were the children of confusion, whom the pleasant sun and friendly air woke to frantic109 and interminable uproar in San Bartolomeo.
Yet there was a charm about all this at first, and I spent much time in the study of the vociferous110 life under my windows, trying to make out the meaning of the different cries, and to trace them back to their sources. There was one which puzzled me for a long time—a sharp, pealing111 cry that ended in a wail112 of angry despair, and, rising high above all other sounds, impressed the spirit like the cry of that bird in the tropic forests which the terrified Spaniards called the alma perdida. After many days of listening and trembling, I found that it proceeded from a wretched, sun-burnt girl, who carried about some dozens of knotty113 pears, and whose hair hung disheveled round her eyes, bloodshot with the strain of her incessant114 shrieks115.
In San Bartolomeo, as in other squares, the buildings are palaces above and shops below. The ground-floor is devoted to the small commerce of various kinds already mentioned; the first story above is occupied by tradesmen’s families; and on the third or fourth floor is the appartamento signorile. From the balconies of these stories hung the cages of innumerable finches, canaries, blackbirds, and savage116 parrots, which sang and screamed with delight in the noise that rose from the crowd. All the human life, therefore, which the spring drew to the casements117 was perceptible only in dumb show. One of the palaces opposite was used as a hotel, and faces continually appeared at the windows. By all odds the most interesting figure there was that of a stout peasant serving-girl, dressed in a white knitted jacket, a crimson118 neckerchief, and a bright-colored gown, and wearing long dangling ear-rings of yellowest gold. For hours this idle maiden119 balanced herself half over the balcony-rail in perusal of the people under her, and I suspect made love at that distance, and in that constrained120 position, to some one in the crowd. On another balcony, a lady sat and knitted with crimson yarn121; and at the window of still another house, a damsel now looked out upon the square, and now gave a glance into the room, in the evident direction of a mirror. Venetian neighbors have the amiable122 custom of studying one another’s features through opera-glasses; but I could not persuade myself to use this means of learning the mirror’s response to the damsel’s constant “Fair or not?” being a believer in every woman’s right to look well a little way off. I shunned123 whatever trifling124 temptation there was in the case, and turned again to the campo beneath—to the placid125 dandies about the door of the caffè; to the tide of passers from the Merceria; the smooth-shaven Venetians of other days, and the bearded Venetians of these; the dark-eyed, white-faced Venetian girls, hooped126 in cruel disproportion to the narrow streets, but richly clad, and moving with southern grace; the files of heavily burdened soldiers; the little policemen loitering lazily about with their swords at their sides, and in their spotless Austrian uniforms.
As the spring advances in Venice, and the heat increases, the expansive delight with which the city hails its coming passes into a tranquiler humor, as if the joy of the beautiful season had sunk too deeply into the city’s heart for utterance127. I, too, felt this longing128 for quiet, and as San Bartolomeo continued untouched by it, and all day roared and thundered under my windows, and all night long gave itself up to sleepless129 youths who there melodiously130 bayed the moon in chorus, I was obliged to abandon San Bartolomeo, and seek calmer quarters where I might enjoy the last luxurious131 sensations of the spring-time in peace.
Now, with the city’s lapse45 into this tranquiler humor, the promenades cease. The facchino gives all his leisure to sleeping in the sun; and in the mellow132 afternoons there is scarcely a space of six feet square on the Riva degli Schiavoni which does not bear its brown-cloaked peasant, basking133 face-downward in the warmth. The broad steps of the bridges are by right the berths134 of the beggars; the sailors and fishermen slumber135 in their boats; and the gondoliers, if they do not sleep, are yet placated136 by the season, and forbear to quarrel, and only break into brief clamors at the sight of inaccessible137 Inglesi passing near them under the guard of valets de place. Even the play of the children ceases, except in the Public Gardens, where the children of the poor have indolent games, and sport as noiselessly as the lizards138 that slide from shadow to shadow and glitter in the sun asleep. This vernal silence of the city possesses you,—the stranger in it,—not with sadness, not with melancholy139, but with a deep sense of the sweetness of doing nothing, and an indifference140 to all purposes and chances. If ever you cared to have your name on men’s tongues, behold141! that old yearning142 for applause is dead. Praise would strike like pain through this delicious calm. And blame? It is a wild and frantic thing to dare it by any effort. Repose143 takes you to her inmost heart, and you learn her secrets—arcana unintelligible144 to you in the new-world life of bustle and struggle. Old lines of lazy rhyme win new color and meaning. The mystical, indolent poems whose music once charmed away all will to understand them, are revealed now without your motion. Now, at last, you know why
“It was an Abyssinian maid”
who played upon the dulcimer. And Xanadu? It is the land in which you were born!
The slumbrous bells murmur145 to each other in the lagoons; the white sail faints into the white distance; the gondola146 slides athwart the sheeted silver of the bay; the blind beggar, who seemed sleepless as fate, dozes147 at his post.
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1
piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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lateral
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| adj.侧面的，旁边的 | |
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mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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9
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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moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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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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patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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tempts
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| v.引诱或怂恿（某人）干不正当的事( tempt的第三人称单数 )；使想要 | |
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arcaded
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| adj.成为拱廊街道的，有列拱的 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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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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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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assorted
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| adj.各种各样的，各色俱备的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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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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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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42
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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43
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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44
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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45
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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46
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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47
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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48
cravats
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| n.（系在衬衫衣领里面的）男式围巾( cravat的名词复数 ) | |
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49
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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50
smokers
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| 吸烟者( smoker的名词复数 ) | |
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51
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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52
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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53
conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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54
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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55
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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56
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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57
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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58
stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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59
civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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60
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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61
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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62
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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63
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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64
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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65
hordes
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| n.移动着的一大群( horde的名词复数 )；部落 | |
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66
loutish
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| adj.粗鲁的 | |
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67
frowzy
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| adj.不整洁的；污秽的 | |
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68
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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69
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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70
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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71
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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72
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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73
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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74
lagoons
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| n.污水池( lagoon的名词复数 )；潟湖；（大湖或江河附近的）小而浅的淡水湖；温泉形成的池塘 | |
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75
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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76
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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77
fiddles
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| n.小提琴( fiddle的名词复数 )；欺诈；（需要运用手指功夫的）细巧活动；当第二把手v.伪造( fiddle的第三人称单数 )；篡改；骗取；修理或稍作改动 | |
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78
dreariest
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| 使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的最高级 )； 阴沉的； 令人厌烦的； 单调的 | |
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79
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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80
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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81
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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82
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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83
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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84
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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85
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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86
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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87
baubles
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| n.小玩意( bauble的名词复数 )；华而不实的小件装饰品；无价值的东西；丑角的手杖 | |
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88
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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89
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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90
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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91
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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92
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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93
projection
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| n.发射，计划，突出部分 | |
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94
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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95
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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96
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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97
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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98
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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99
tangles
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| （使）缠结， （使）乱作一团( tangle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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100
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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101
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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102
swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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103
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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104
assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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105
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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106
anvil
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| n.铁钻 | |
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107
anvils
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| n.（铁）砧( anvil的名词复数 )；砧骨 | |
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108
charlatans
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| n.冒充内行者，骗子( charlatan的名词复数 ) | |
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109
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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110
vociferous
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| adj.喧哗的，大叫大嚷的 | |
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111
pealing
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的现在分词 ) | |
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112
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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113
knotty
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| adj.有结的，多节的，多瘤的，棘手的 | |
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114
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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115
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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116
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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117
casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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118
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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119
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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120
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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121
yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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122
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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123
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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125
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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126
hooped
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| adj.以环作装饰的；带横纹的；带有环的 | |
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127
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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128
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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129
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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130
melodiously
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131
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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132
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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133
basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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134
berths
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| n.（船、列车等的）卧铺( berth的名词复数 )；（船舶的）停泊位或锚位；差事；船台vt.v.停泊( berth的第三人称单数 )；占铺位 | |
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135
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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136
placated
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| v.安抚，抚慰，使平静( placate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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138
lizards
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| n.蜥蜴( lizard的名词复数 ) | |
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139
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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140
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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141
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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142
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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143
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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144
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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145
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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146
gondola
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| n.威尼斯的平底轻舟；飞船的吊船 | |
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147
dozes
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| n.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的名词复数 )v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的第三人称单数 ) | |
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