The absolute want of society of my own nation in Venice would have thrown me upon study of the people for my amusement, even if I had cared to learn nothing of them; and the necessity of economical housekeeping would have caused me to live in the frugal5 Venetian fashion, even if I had been disposed to remain a foreigner in every thing. Of bachelor lodgings6 I had sufficient experience during my first year; but as most prudent7 travelers who visit the city for a week take lodgings, I need not describe my own particularly. You can tell the houses in which there are rooms to let, by the squares of white paper fastened to the window-shutters; and a casual glance as you pass through the streets, gives you the idea that the chief income of the place is derived8 from letting lodgings. Carpetless, dreary9 barracks the rooms usually are, with an uncompromising squareness of prints upon the wall, an appalling10 breadth of husk-bed, a niggardness of wash-bowl, and an obduracy11 of sofa, never, never to be dissociated in their victim’s mind from the idea of the villanous hard bread of Venice on which the gloomy landlady12 sustains her life with its immutable13 purposes of plunder14. Flabbiness without softness is the tone of these discouraging chambers15, which are dear or not according to the season and the situation. On the sunlit Riva during winter, and on the Grand Canal in summer, they are costly16 enough, but they are to be found on nearly all the squares at reasonable rates. On the narrow streets, where most native bachelors have them, they are absurdly cheap.
As in nearly all places on the Continent, a house in Venice means a number of rooms, including a whole story in a building, or part of it only, but always completely separated from the story above and below, or from the other rooms on the same floor. Every house has its own entrance from the street, or by a common hall and stairway from the ground-floor, where are the cellars or store-rooms, while each kitchen is usually on a level with the other rooms of the house to which it belongs. The isolation17 of the different families is secured (as perfectly18 as where a building is solely19 appropriated to each), either by the exclusive possession of a streetdoor, 13 or by the unsocial domestic habits of Europe. You bow and give good-day to the people whom you meet in the common hall and on the common stairway, but you rarely know more of them than their names, and you certainly care nothing about them. The sociability20 of Europe, and more especially of Southern Europe, is shown abroad; under the domestic roof it dwindles21 and disappears. And indeed it is no wonder, considering how dispiriting and comfortless most of the houses are. The lower windows are heavily barred with iron; the wood-work is rude, even in many palaces in Venice; the rest is stone and stucco; the walls are not often papered, though they are sometimes painted: the most pleasing and inviting22 feature of the interior is the frescoed23 ceiling of the better rooms. The windows shut imperfectly, the heavy wooden blinds imperviously25 (is it worth while to observe that there are no Venetian blinds in Venice?); the doors lift slantingly from the floor, in which their lower hinges are imbedded; the stoves are of plaster, and consume fuel without just return of heat; the balconies alone are always charming, whether they hang high over the streets, or look out upon the canals, and, with the gayly painted ceilings, go far to make the houses habitable.
It happens in the case of houses, as with nearly every thing else in Italy, that you pay about the same price for half the comfort that you get in America. In Venice, most of the desirable situations are on the Grand Canal; but here the rents are something absurdly high, when taken in consideration with the fact that the city is not made a place of residence by foreigners like Florence, and that it has no commercial activity to enhance the cost of living. Househunting, under these circumstances, becomes an office of constant surprise and disconcertment to the stranger. You look, for example, at a suite26 of rooms in a tumble-down old palace, where the walls, shamelessly smarted up with coarse paper, crumble27 at your touch; where the floor rises and falls like the sea, and the door-frames and window-cases have long lost all recollection of the plumb28. Madama la Baronessa is at present occupying these pleasant apartments, and you only gain admission to them after an embassy to procure29 her permission. Madama la Baronessa receives you courteously30, and you pass through her rooms, which are a little in disorder31, the Baronessa being on the point of removal. Madama la Baronessa’s hoop-skirts prevail upon the floors; and at the side of the couch which her form lately pressed in slumber32, you observe a French novel and a wasted candle in the society of a half-bottle of the wine of the country. A bedroomy smell pervades33 the whole suite, and through the open window comes a curious stench explained as the odor of Madama la Baronessa’s guinea-pigs, of which she is so fond that she has had their sty placed immediately under her window in the garden. It is this garden which has first taken your heart, with a glimpse caught through the great open door of the palace. It is disordered and wild, but so much the better; its firs are very thick and dark, and there are certain statues, fauns and nymphs, which weather stains and mosses34 have made much decenter than the sculptor35 intended. You think that for this garden’s sake you could put up with the house, which must be very cheap. What is the price of the rooms? you ask of the smiling landlord. He answers, without winking36, “If taken for several years, a thousand florins a year.” At which you suppress the whistle of disdainful surprise, and say you think it will not suit. He calls your attention to the sun, which comes in at every side, which will roast you in summer, and will not (as he would have you think) warm you in winter. “But there is another apartment,”—through which you drag languidly. It is empty now, being last inhabited by an English Ledi,—and her stove-pipes went out of the windows, and blackened the shabby stucco front of the villanous old palace.
In a back court, upon a filthy37 canal, you chance on a house, the curiously38 frescoed front of which tempts39 you within. A building which has a lady and gentleman painted in fresco24, and making love from balcony to balcony, on the fa?ade, as well as Arlecchino depicted40 in the act of leaping from the second to the third story, promises something. Promises something, but does not fulfill41 the promise. The interior is fresh, clean, and new, and cold and dark as a cellar. This house—that is to say, a floor of the house—you may have for four hundred florins a year; and then farewell the world and the light of the sun! for neither will ever find you in that back court, and you will never see any body but the neighboring laundresses and their children, who cannot enough admire the front of your house.
E via in seguito! This is of house keeping, not house-hunting. There are pleasant and habitable houses in Venice—but they are not cheap, as many of the uninhabitable houses also are not. Here, discomfort42 and ruin have their price, and the tumble-down is patched up and sold at rates astonishing to innocent strangers who come from countries in good repair, where the tumble-down is worth nothing. If I were not ashamed of the idle and foolish old superstitions43 in which I once believed concerning life in Italy, I would tell how I came gradually to expect very little for a great deal; and how a knowledge of many houses to let, made me more and more contented45 with the house we had taken.
It was in one corner of an old palace on the Grand Canal, and the window of the little parlor46 looked down upon the water, which had made friends with its painted ceiling, and bestowed47 tremulous, golden smiles upon it when the sun shone. The dining-room was not so much favored by the water, but it gave upon some green and ever-rustling tree-tops, that rose to it from a tiny garden-ground, no bigger than a pocket handkerchief. Through this window, also, we could see the quaint48, picturesque49 life of the canal; and from another room we could reach a little terrace above the water. We were not in the appartamento signorile, 14—that was above,—but we were more snugly50 quartered on the first story from the ground-floor, commonly used as a winter apartment in the old times. But it had been cut up, and suites51 of rooms had been broken according to the caprice of successive landlords, till it was not at all palatial52 any more. The upper stories still retained something of former grandeur53, and had acquired with time more than former discomfort. We were not envious54 of them, for they were humbly55 let at a price less than we paid; though we could not quite repress a covetous56 yearning57 for their arched and carven windows, which we saw sometimes from the canal, above the tops of the garden trees.
The gondoliers used always to point out our palace (which was called Casa Falier) as the house in which Marino Faliero was born; and for a long time we clung to the hope that it might be so. But however pleasant it was, we were forced, on reading up the subject a little, to relinquish58 our illusion, and accredit59 an old palace at Santi Apostoli with the distinction we would fain have claimed for ours. I am rather at a loss to explain how it made our lives in Casa Falier any pleasanter to think that a beheaded traitor60 had been born in it, but we relished61 the superstition44 amazingly as long as we could possibly believe in it. What went far to confirm us at first in our credulity was the residence, in another part of the palace, of the Canonico Falier, a lineal descendant of the unhappy doge. He was a very mild-faced old priest, with a white head, which he carried downcast, and crimson62 legs, on which he moved but feebly. He owned the rooms in which he lived, and the apartment in the front of the palace just above our own. The rest of the house belonged to another, for in Venice many of the palaces are divided up and sold among different purchasers, floor by floor, and sometimes even room by room.
But the tenantry of Casa Falier was far more various than its proprietorship63. Over our heads dwelt a Dalmatian family; below our feet a Frenchwoman; at our right, upon the same floor, an English gentleman; under him a French family; and over him the family of a marquis in exile from Modena. Except with Mr. ——, the Englishman, who was at once our friend and landlord (impossible as this may appear to those who know any thing of landlords in Italy), we had no acquaintance, beyond that of salutation, with the many nations represented in our house. We could not help holding the French people in some sort responsible for the invasion of Mexico; and, though opportunity offered for cultivating the acquaintance of the Modenese, we did not improve it.
As for our Dalmatian friends, we met them and bowed to them a great deal, and we heard them overhead in frequent athletic64 games, involving noise as of the maneuvering65 of cavalry66; and as they stood a good deal on their balcony, and looked down upon us on ours, we sometimes enjoyed seeing them admirably foreshortened like figures in a frescoed ceiling. The father of this family was a little man of a solemn and impressive demeanor67, who had no other occupation but to walk up and down the city and view its monuments, for which purpose he one day informed us he had left his native place in Dalmatia, after forty years’ study of Venetian history. He further told us that this was by no means worth the time given it; that whereas the streets of Venice were sepulchres in point of narrowness and obscurity, he had a house in Zara, from the windows of which you might see for miles uninterruptedly! This little gentleman wore a black hat, in the last vivid polish of respectability, and I think fortune was not his friend. The hat was too large for him, as the hats of Italians always are; it came down to his eyes, and he carried a cane68. Every evening he marched solemnly at the head of a procession of his handsome young children, who went to hear the military music in St. Mark’s Square.
The entrance to the house of the Dalmatians—we never knew their names—gave access also to a house in the story above them, which belonged to some mysterious person described on his door-plate as “Co. Prata.” I think we never saw Co. Prata himself, and only by chance some members of his family when they came back from their summer in the country to spend the winter in the city. Prata’s “Co.,” we gradually learnt, meant “Conte,” and the little counts and countesses, his children, immediately on their arrival took an active part in the exercises of the Dalmatian cavalry. Later in the fall, certain of the count’s vassals69 came to the riva 15 in one of the great boats of the Po, with a load of brush and corncobs for fuel—and this is all we ever knew of our neighbors on the fourth floor. As long as he remained “Co.” we yearned70 to know who and what he was; being interpreted as Conte Prata, he ceased to interest us.
Such, then, was the house, and such the neighborhood in which two little people, just married, came to live in Venice.
They were by nature of the order of shorn lambs, and Providence71, tempering the inclemency72 of the domestic situation, gave them Giovanna.
The house was furnished throughout, and Giovanna had been furnished with it. She was at hand to greet the new-comers, and “This is my wife, the new mistress,” said the young Paron 16 with the bashful pride proper to the time and place. Giovanna glowed welcome, and said, with adventurous73 politeness, she was very glad of it.
“Serva sua!“
The Parona, not knowing Italian, laughed in English.
So Giovanna took possession of us, and acting74 upon the great truth that handsome is that handsome does, began at once to make herself a thing of beauty.
As a measure of convenience and of deference75 to her feelings, we immediately resolved to call her G., merely, when speaking of her in English, instead of Giovanna, which would have troubled her with conjecture76 concerning what was said of her. And as G. thus became the centre around which our domestic life revolved77, she must be somewhat particularly treated of in this account of our housekeeping. I suppose that, given certain temperaments78 and certain circumstances, this would have been much like keeping play-house anywhere; in Venice it had, but for the unmistakable florins it cost, a curious property of unreality and impermanency. It is sufficiently79 bad to live in a rented house; in a house which you have hired ready-furnished, it is long till your life takes root, and Home blossoms up in the alien place. For a great while we regarded our house merely as very pleasant lodgings, and we were slow to form any relations which could take from our residence its temporary character. Had we but thought to get in debt to the butcher, the baker80, and the grocer, we might have gone far to establish ourselves at once; but we imprudently paid our way, and consequently had no ties to bind81 us to our fellow-creatures. In Venice provisions are bought by housekeepers83 on a scale surprisingly small to one accustomed to wholesale84 American ways, and G., having the purse, made our little purchases in cash, never buying more than enough for one meal at a time. Every morning, the fruits and vegetables are distributed from the great market at the Rialto among a hundred greengrocers’ stalls in all parts of the city; bread (which is never made at home) is found fresh at the baker’s; there is a butcher’s stall in each campo with fresh meat. These shops are therefore resorted to for family supplies day by day; and the poor lay in provisions there in portions graduated to a soldo of their ready means. A great Bostonian whom I remember to have heard speculate on the superiority of a state of civilization in which you could buy two cents’ worth of beef to that in which so small a quantity was unpurchasable, would find the system perfected here, where you can buy half a cent’s worth. It is a system friendly to poverty, and the small retail85 prices approximate very closely the real value of the stuff sold, as we sometimes proved by offering to purchase in quantity. Usually no reduction would be made from the retail rate, and it was sufficiently amusing to have the dealer86 figure up the cost of the quantity we proposed to buy, and then exhibit an exact multiplication87 of his retail rate by our twenty or fifty. Say an orange is worth a soldo: you get no more than a hundred for a florin, though the dealer will cheerfully go under that number if he can cheat you in the count. So in most things we found it better to let G. do the marketing88 in her own small Venetian fashion, and “guard our strangeness.”
But there were some things which must be brought to the house by the dealers89, such as water for drinking and cooking, which is drawn90 from public cisterns91 in the squares, and carried by stout92 young girls to all the houses. These bigolanti all come from the mountains of Friuli; they all have rosy93 cheeks, white teeth, bright eyes, and no waists whatever (in the fashionable sense), but abundance of back. The cisterns are opened about eight o’clock in the morning, and then their day’s work begins with chatter94, and splashing, and drawing up buckets from the wells; and each sturdy little maiden95 in turn trots96 off under a burden of two buckets,—one appended from either end of a bow resting upon the right shoulder. The water is very good, for it is the rain which falls on the shelving surface of the campo, and soaks through a bed of sea-sand around the cisterns into the cool depths below. The bigolante comes every morning and empties her brazen97 buckets into the great picturesque jars of porous98 earthenware99 which ornament100 Venetian kitchens; and the daily supply of water costs a moderate family about a florin a month.
Fuel is likewise brought to your house, but this arrives in boats. It is cut upon the eastern shore of the Adriatic, and comes to Venice in small coasting vessels101, each of which has a plump captain in command, whose red face is so cunningly blended with his cap of scarlet102 flannel103 that it is hard on a breezy day to tell where the one begins and the other ends. These vessels anchor off the Custom House in the Guidecca Canal in the fall, and lie there all winter (or until their cargo104 of fuel is sold), a great part of the time under the charge solely of a small yellow dog of the irascible breed common to the boats of the Po. Thither105 the smaller dealers in firewood resort, and carry thence supplies of fuel to all parts of the city, melodiously106 crying their wares108 up and down the canals, and penetrating109 the land on foot with specimen110 bundles of fagots in their arms. They are not, as a class, imaginative, I think—their fancy seldom rising beyond the invention that their fagots are beautiful and sound and dry. But our particular woodman was, in his way, a gifted man. Long before I had dealings with him, I knew him by the superb song, or rather incantation, with which he announced his coming on the Grand Canal. The purport111 of this was merely that his bark was called the Beautiful Caroline, and that his fagots were fine; but he so dwelt upon the hidden beauties of this idea, and so prolonged their effect upon the mind by artful repetition, and the full, round, and resonant112 roar with which he closed his triumphal hymn113, that the spirit was taken with the charm, and held in breathless admiration114. By all odds115, this woodman’s cry was the most impressive of all the street cries of Venice. There may have been an exquisite116 sadness and sweetness in the wail117 of the chimney-sweep; a winning pathos118 in the voice of the vender119 of roast pumpkin120; an oriental fancy and splendor121 in the fruiterers who cried “Melons with hearts of fire!” and “Juicy pears that bathe your beard!”—there may have been something peculiarly effective in the song of the chestnut-man who shouted “Fat chestnuts,” and added, after a lapse122 in which you got almost beyond hearing, “and well cooked!”—I do not deny that there was a seductive sincerity123 in the proclamation of one whose peaches could not be called beautiful to look upon, and were consequently advertised as “Ugly, but good!”—I say nothing to detract from the merits of harmonious124 chair-menders;—to my ears the shout of the melodious107 fisherman was delectable125 music, and all the birds of summer sang in the voices of the countrymen who sold finches and larks126 in cages, and roses and pinks in pots;—but I say, after all, none of these people combined the vocal127 power, the sonorous128 movement, the delicate grace, and the vast compass of our woodman. Yet this man, as far as virtue129 went, was vox et praeterea nihil. He was a vagabond of the most abandoned; he was habitually131 in drink, and I think his sins had gone near to make him mad—at any rate he was of a most lunatical deportment. In other lands, the man of whom you are a regular purchaser, serves you well; in Italy he conceives that his long service gives him the right to plunder you if possible. I felt in every fibre that this woodman invariably cheated me in measurement, and, indeed, he scarcely denied it on accusation132. But my single experience of the more magnificent scoundrels of whom he bought the wood originally, contented me with the swindle with which I had become familiarized. On this occasion I took a boat and went to the Custom House, to get my fuel at first hand. The captain of the ship which I boarded wished me to pay more than I gave for fuel delivered at my door, and thereupon ensued the tragic133 scene of bargaining, as these things are conducted in Italy. We stood up and bargained, we sat down and bargained; the captain turned his back upon me in indignation; I parted from him and took to my boat in scorn; he called me back and displayed the wood—good, sound, dryer134 than bones; he pointed135 to the threatening heavens, and declared that it would snow that night, and on the morrow I could not get wood for twice the present price; but I laughed incredulously. Then my captain took another tack136, and tried to make the contract in obsolete137 currencies, in Austrian pounds, in Venetian pounds, but as I inexorably reduced these into familiar money, he paused desperately138, and made me an offer which I accepted with mistaken exultation139. For my captain was shrewder than I, and held arts of measurement in reserve against me. He agreed that the measurement and transportation should not cost me the value of his tooth-pick—quite an old and worthless one—which he showed me. Yet I was surprised into the payment of a youth whom this man called to assist at the measurement, and I had to give the boatman drink-money at the end. He promised that the measure should be just: yet if I lifted my eye from the work he placed the logs slantingly on the measure, and threw in knotty140 chunks141 that crowded wholesome142 fuel out, and let the daylight through and through the pile. I protested, and he admitted the wrong when I pointed it out: ”Ga razon, lu!“ (He’s right!) he said to his fellows in infamy143, and throwing aside the objectionable pieces, proceeded to evade144 justice by new artifices146. When I had this memorable147 load of wood housed at home, I found that it had cost just what I paid my woodman, and that I had additionally lost my self-respect in being plundered148 before my face, and I resolved thereafter to be cheated in quiet dignity behind my back. The woodman exulted149 in his restored sovereignty, and I lost nothing in penalty for my revolt.
Among other provisioners who come to your house in Venice, are those ancient peasant-women, who bring fresh milk in bottles carefully packed in baskets filled with straw. They set off the whiteness of their wares by the brownness of their sunburnt hands and faces, and bear in their general stoutness150 and burliness of presence, a curious resemblance to their own comfortable bottles. They wear broad straw hats, and dangling151 ear-rings of yellow gold, and are the pleasantest sight of the morning streets of Venice, to the stoniness152 of which they bring a sense of the country’s clovery pasturage, in the milk just drawn from the great cream-colored cows.
Fishermen, also, come down the little calli—with shallow baskets of fish upon their heads and under either arm, and cry their soles and mackerel to the neighborhood, stopping now and then at some door to bargain away the eels153 which they chop into sections as the thrilling drama proceeds, and hand over as a denouement154 at the purchaser’s own price. “Beautiful and all alive!” is the engaging cry with which they hawk155 their fish.
Besides these daily purveyors, there are men of divers156 arts who come to exercise their crafts at your house: not chimney-sweeps merely, but glaziers, and that sort of workmen, and, best of all, chair-menders,—who bear a mended chair upon their shoulders for a sign, with pieces of white wood for further mending, a drawing-knife, a hammer, and a sheaf of rushes, and who sit down at your door, and plait the rush bottoms of your kitchen-chairs anew, and make heaps of fragrant157 whittlings with their knives, and gossip with your serving-woman.
But in the mean time our own serving-woman Giovanna, the great central principle of our housekeeping, is waiting to be personally presented to the company. In Italy, there are old crones so haggard, that it is hard not to believe them created just as crooked158, and foul159, and full of fluff and years as you behold160 them, and you cannot understand how so much frowziness161 and so little hair, so great show of fangs162 and so few teeth, are growths from any ordinary human birth. G. is no longer young, but she is not after the likeness163 of these old women. It is of a middle age, unbeginning, interminable, of which she gives you the impression. She has brown apple-cheeks, just touched with frost; her nose is of a strawberry formation abounding164 in small dints, and having the slightly shrunken effect observable in tardy165 perfections of the fruit mentioned. A tough, pleasant, indestructible woman—for use, we thought, not ornament—the mother of a family, a good Catholic, and the flower of serving-women.
I do not think that Venetian servants are, as a class, given to pilfering166; but knowing ourselves subject by nature to pillage167, we cannot repress a feeling of gratitude168 to G. that she does not prey169 upon us. She strictly170 accounts for all money given her at the close of each week, and to this end keeps a kind of account-book, which I cannot help regarding as in some sort an inspired volume, being privy171 to the fact, confirmed by her own confession172, that G. is not good for reading and writing. On settling with her I have been permitted to look into this book, which is all in capital letters,—each the evident result of serious labor173,—with figures representing combinations of the pot-hook according to bold and original conceptions. The spelling is also a remarkable174 effort of creative genius. The only difficulty under which the author labors175 in regard to the book is the confusion naturally resulting from the effort to get literature right side up when it has got upside down. The writing is a kind of pugilism—the strokes being made straight out from the shoulder. The account-book is always carried about with her in a fathomless176 pocket overflowing177 with the aggregations178 of a housekeeper82 who can throw nothing away, to wit: matchboxes, now appointed to hold buttons and hooks-and-eyes; beeswax in the lump; the door-key (which in Venice takes a formidable size, and impresses you at first sight as ordnance); a patch-bag; a porte-monnaie; many lead-pencils in the stump179; scissors, pincushions, and the Beata Vergine in a frame. Indeed, this incapability180 of throwing things away is made to bear rather severely181 upon us in some things, such as the continual reappearance of familiar dishes at table—particularly veteran bifsteca. But we fancy that the same frugal instinct is exercised to our advantage and comfort in other things, for G. makes a great show and merit of denying our charity to those bold and adventurous children of sorrow, who do not scruple182 to ring your door-bell, and demand alms. It is true that with G., as with every Italian, almsgiving enters into the theory and practice of Christian183 life, but she will not suffer misery184 to abuse its privileges. She has no hesitation185, however, in bringing certain objects of compassion186 to our notice, and she procures187 small services to be done for us by many lame188 and halt of her acquaintance. Having bought my boat (I come, in time, to be willing to sell it again for half its cost to me), I require a menial to clean it now and then, and Giovanna first calls me a youthful Gobbo for the work,—a festive189 hunchback, a bright-hearted whistler of comic opera. Whether this blithe190 humor is not considered decent, I do not know, but though the Gobbo serves me faithfully, I find him one day replaced by a venerable old man, whom—from his personal resemblance to Time—I should think much better occupied with an hourglass, or engaged with a scythe192 in mowing193 me and other mortals down, than in cleaning my boat. But all day long he sits on my riva in the sun, when it shines, gazing fixedly194 at my boat; and when the day is dark, he lurks195 about the street, accessible to my slightest boating impulse. He salutes196 my going out and coming in with grave reverence197, and I think he has no work to do but that which G.‘s wise compassion has given him from me. Suddenly, like the Gobbo, the Veccio also disappears, and I hear vaguely—for in Venice you never know any thing with precision—that he has found a regular employment in Padua, and again that he is dead. While he lasts, G. has a pleasant, even a sportive manner with this poor old man, calculated to cheer his declining years; but, as I say, cases of insolent198 and aggressive misery fail to touch her. The kind of wretchedness that comes breathing woe199 and sciampagnin 17 under our window, and there spends a leisure hour in the rehearsal200 of distress201, establishes no claim either upon her pity or her weakness. She is deaf to the voice of that sorrow, and the monotonous202 whine203 of that dolor cannot move her to the purchase of a guilty tranquillity204. I imagine, however, that she is afraid to deny charity to the fat Capuchin friar in spectacles and bare feet, who comes twice a month to levy205 contributions of bread and fuel for his convent, for we hear her declare from the window that the master is not at home, whenever the good brother rings; and at last, as this excuse gives out, she ceases to respond to his ring at all.
Sometimes, during the summer weather, comes down our street a certain tremulous old troubadour with an aged191 cithern, on which he strums feebly with bones which remain to him from former fingers, and in a thin quivering voice pipes worn-out ditties of youth and love. Sadder music I have never heard, but though it has at times drawn from me the sigh of sensibility without referring sympathy to my pocket, I always hear the compassionate206 soldo of Giovanna clink reproof207 to me upon the pavement. Perhaps that slender note touches something finer than habitual130 charity in her middle-aged208 bosom209, for these were songs she says that they used to sing when she was a girl, and Venice was gay and glad, and different from now—veramente, tutt’ altro, signor!
It is through Giovanna’s charitable disposition210 that we make the acquaintance of two weird211 sisters, who live not far from us in Calle Falier, and whom we know to this day merely as the Creatures—creatura being in the vocabulary of Venetian pity the term for a fellow-being somewhat more pitiable than a poveretta. Our Creatures are both well stricken in years, and one of them has some incurable212 disorder which frequently confines her to the wretched cellar in which they live with the invalid’s husband,—a mild, pleasant-faced man, a tailor by trade, and of batlike habits, who hovers213 about their dusky doorway214 in the summer twilight215. These people have but one room, and a little nook of kitchen at the side; and not only does the sun never find his way into their habitation, but even the daylight cannot penetrate216 it. They pay about four florins a month for the place, and I hope their landlord is as happy as his tenants217. For though one is sick, and all are wretchedly poor, they are far from being discontented. They are opulent in the possession of a small dog, which they have raised from the cradle, as it were, and adopted into the family. They are never tired of playing with their dog,—the poor old children,—and every slight display of intelligence on his part delights them. They think it fine in him to follow us as we go by, but pretend to beat him; and then they excuse him, and call him ill names, and catch him up, and hug him and kiss him. He feeds upon their slender means and the pickings that G. carefully carries him from our kitchen, and gives to him on our doorstep in spite of us, while she gossips with his mistresses, who chorus our appearance at such times with ”I miei rispetti, signori!“ We often see them in the street, and at a distance from home, carrying mysterious bundles of clothes; and at last we learn their vocation218, which is one not known out of Italian cities, I think. There the state is Uncle to the hard-pressed, and instead of many pawnbrokers’ shops there is one large municipal spout220, which is called the Monte di Pietà, where the needy221 pawn219 their goods. The system is centuries old in Italy, but there are people who to this day cannot summon courage to repair in person to the Mount of Pity, and, to meet their wants, there has grown up a class of frowzy222 old women who transact223 the business for them, and receive a small percentage for their trouble. Our poor old Creatures were of this class, and as there were many persons in impoverished224, decaying Venice who had need of the succor225 they procured226, they made out to earn a living when both were well, and to eke4 out existence by charity when one was ill. They were harmless neighbors, and I believe they regretted our removal, when this took place, for they used to sit down under an arcade227 opposite our new house, and spend the duller intervals228 of trade in the contemplation of our windows.
The alarming spirit of nepotism229 which Giovanna developed at a later day was, I fear, a growth from the encouragement we gave her charitable disposition. But for several months it was merely from the fact of a boy who came and whistled at the door until Giovanna opened it and reproved him in the name of all the saints and powers of darkness, that we knew her to be a mother; and we merely had her word for the existence of a husband, who dealt in poultry230. Without seeing Giovanna’s husband, I nevertheless knew him to be a man of downy exterior231, wearing a canvas apron232, thickly crusted with the gore233 of fowls234, who sat at the door of his shop and plucked chickens forever, as with the tireless hand of Fate. I divined that he lived in an atmosphere of scalded pullet; that three earthen cups of clotted235 chickens’ blood, placed upon his window-shelf, formed his idea of an attractive display, and that he shadowed forth236 his conceptions of the beautiful in symmetrical rows of plucked chickens, presenting to the public eye rear views embellished237 with a single feather erect238 in the tail of each bird; that he must be, through the ethics239 of competition, the sworn foe240 of those illogical peasants who bring dead poultry to town in cages, like singing birds, and equally the friend of those restaurateurs who furnish you a meal of victuals241 and a feather-bed in the same mezzo-polio arrosto. He turned out on actual appearance to be all I had prefigured him, with the additional merit of having a large red nose, a sidelong, fugitive242 gait, and a hangdog countenance243. He furnished us poultry at rates slightly advanced, I think.
As for the boy, he turned up after a while as a constant guest, and took possession of the kitchen. He came near banishment244 at one time for catching245 a large number of sea-crabs in the canal, and confining them in a basket in the kitchen, which they left at the dead hour of night, to wander all over our house,—making a mysterious and alarming sound of snapping, like an army of death-watches, and eluding246 the cunningest efforts at capture. On another occasion, he fell into the canal before our house, and terrified us by going under twice before the arrival of the old gondolier, who called out to him ”Petta! petta!“ (Wait! wait!) as he placidly247 pushed his boat to the spot. Developing other disagreeable traits, Beppi was finally driven into exile, from which he nevertheless furtively248 returned on holidays.
The family of Giovanna thus gradually encroaching upon us, we came also to know her mother,—a dread249 and loathly old lady, whom we would willingly have seen burned at the stake for a witch. She was commonly encountered at nightfall in our street, where she lay in wait, as it were, to prey upon the fragrance250 of dinner drifting from the kitchen windows of our neighbor, the Duchess of Parma. Here was heard the voice of cooks and of scullions, and the ecstasies251 of helpless voracity252 in which we sometimes beheld253 this old lady were fearful to witness. Nor did we find her more comfortable in our own kitchen, where we often saw her. The place itself is weird and terrible—low ceiled, with the stone hearth254 built far out into the room, and the melodramatic implements255 of Venetian cookery dangling tragically256 from the wall. Here is no every-day cheerfulness of cooking-range, but grotesque257 andirons wading258 into the bristling259 embers, and a long crane with villanous pots gibbeted upon it. When Giovanna’s mother, then (of the Italian hags, haggard), rises to do us reverence from the darkest corner of this kitchen, and croaks260 her good wishes for our long life, continued health, and endless happiness, it has the effect upon our spirits of the darkest malediction261.
Not more pleasing, though altogether lighter262 and cheerfuler, was Giovanna’s sister-in-law, whom we knew only as the Cognata. Making her appearance first upon the occasion of Giovanna’s sickness, she slowly but surely established herself as an habitual presence, and threatened at one time, as we fancied, to become our paid servant. But a happy calamity263 which one night carried off a carpet and the window curtains of an unoccupied room, cast an evil suspicion upon the Cognata, and she never appeared after the discovery of the theft. We suspected her of having invented some dishes of which we were very fond, and we hated her for oppressing us with a sense of many surreptitious favors. Objectively, she was a slim, hoopless little woman, with a tendency to be always at the street-door when we opened it. She had a narrow, narrow face, with eyes of terrible slyness, an applausive smile, and a demeanor of slavish patronage264. Our kitchen, after her addition to the household, became the banqueting-hall of Giovanna’s family, who dined there every day upon dishes of fish and garlic, that gave the house the general savor265 of a low cook-shop.
As for Giovanna herself, she had the natural tendency of excellent people to place others in subjection. Our servitude at first was not hard, and consisted chiefly in the stimulation266 of appetite to extraordinary efforts when G. had attempted to please us with some novelty in cooking. She held us to a strict account in this respect; but indeed our applause was for the most part willing enough. Her culinary execution, first revealing itself in a noble rendering267 of our ideas of roast potatoes,—a delicacy268 foreign to the Venetian kitchen,—culminated at last in the same style of polpetti 18 which furnished forth the table of our neighbor, the Duchess, and was a perpetual triumph with us.
But G.‘s spirit was not wholly that of the serving-woman. We noted269 in her the liveliness of wit seldom absent from the Italian poor. She was a great babbler, and talked willingly to herself, and to inanimate things, when there was no other chance for talk. She was profuse270 in maledictions of bad weather, which she held up to scorn as that dog of a weather. The crookedness271 of the fuel transported her, and she upbraided272 the fagots as springing from races of ugly old curs. (The vocabulary of Venetian abuse is inexhaustible, and the Venetians invent and combine terms of opprobrium273 with endless facility, but all abuse begins and ends with the attribution of doggishness.) The conscription was held in the campo near us, and G. declared the place to have become unendurable—”proprio un campo di sospiri!“ (Really a field of sighs.) ”Staga comodo!“ she said to a guest of ours who would have moved his chair to let her pass between him and the wall. “Don’t move; the way to Paradise is not wider than this.” We sometimes lamented274 that Giovanna, who did not sleep in the house, should come to us so late in the morning, but we could not deal harshly with her on that account, met, as we always were, with plentiful275 and admirable excuses. Who were we, indeed, to place our wishes in the balance against the welfare of the sick neighbor with whom Giovanna passed so many nights of vigil? Should we reproach her with tardiness276 when she had not closed the eye all night for a headache properly of the devil? If she came late in the morning, she stayed late at night; and it sometimes happened that when the Paron and Parona, supposing her gone, made a stealthy expedition to the kitchen for cold chicken, they found her there at midnight in the fell company of the Cognata, bibbing the wine of the country and holding a mild Italian revel277 with that vinegar and the stony278 bread of Venice.
I have said G. was the flower of serving-women; and so at first she seemed, and it was long till we doubted her perfection. We knew ourselves to be very young, and weak, and unworthy. The Parona had the rare gift of learning to speak less and less Italian every day, and fell inevitably279 into subjection. The Paron in a domestic point of view was naturally nothing. It had been strange indeed if Giovanna, beholding280 the great contrast we presented to herself in many respects, had forborne to abuse her advantage over us. But we trusted her implicitly281, and I hardly know how or when it was that we began to waver in our confidence. It is certain that with the lapse of time we came gradually to have breakfast at twelve o’clock, instead of nine, as we had originally appointed it, and that G. grew to consume the greater part of the day in making our small purchases, and to give us our belated dinners at seven o’clock. We protested, and temporary reforms ensued, only to be succeeded by more hopeless lapses282; but it was not till all entreaties283 and threats failed that we began to think seriously it would be well to have done with Giovanna, as an unprofitable servant. I give the result, not all the nice causes from which it came. But the question was, How to get rid of a poor woman and a civil, and the mother of a family dependent in great part upon her labor? We solemnly resolve a hundred times to dismiss G., and we shrink a hundred times from inflicting284 the blow. At last, somewhat in the spirit of Charles Lamb’s Chinaman who invented roast pig, and discovered that the sole method of roasting it was to burn down a house in order to consume the adjacent pig-sty, and thus cook the roaster in the flames,—we hit upon an artifice145 by which we could dispense285 with Giovanna, and keep an easy conscience. We had long ceased to dine at home, in despair; and now we resolved to take another house, in which there were other servants. But even then, it was a sore struggle to part with the flower of serving-women, who was set over the vacated house to put it in order after our flitting, and with whom the imprudent Paron settled the last account in the familiar little dining-room, surrounded by the depressing influences of the empty chambers. The place was peopled after all, though we had left it, and I think the tenants who come after us will be haunted by our spectres, crowding them on the pleasant little balcony, and sitting down with them at table. G. stood there, the genius of the place, and wept six regretful tears, each one of which drew a florin from the purse of the Paron. She had hoped to remain with us always while we lived in Venice; but now that she could no longer look to us for support, the Lord must take care of her. The gush286 of grief was transient: it relieved her, and she came out sunnily a moment after. The Paron went his way more sorrowfully, taking leave at last with the fine burst of Christian philosophy: “We are none of us masters of ourselves in this world, and cannot do what we wish. Ma! Come si fa? Ci vuol pazienza!“ Yet he was undeniably lightened in heart. He had cut adrift from old moorings, and had crossed the Grand Canal. G. did not follow him, nor any of the long line of pensioners287 who used to come on certain feast-days to levy tribute of eggs at the old house. (The postman was among these, on Christmas and New Year’s, and as he received eggs at every house, it was a problem with us, unsolved to this hour, how he carried them all, and what he did with them.) Not the least among the Paron’s causes for self-gratulation was the non-appearance at his new abode288 of two local newspapers, for which in an evil hour he subscribed289, which were delivered with unsparing regularity290, and which, being never read, formed the keenest reproach of his imprudent outlay291 and his idle neglect of their contents.
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1
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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2
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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eke
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| v.勉强度日，节约使用 | |
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frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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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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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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obduracy
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| n.冷酷无情，顽固，执拗 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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14
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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16
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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17
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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18
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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19
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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20
sociability
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| n.好交际，社交性，善于交际 | |
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21
dwindles
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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22
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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23
frescoed
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| 壁画( fresco的名词复数 )； 温壁画技法，湿壁画 | |
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fresco
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| n.壁画；vt.作壁画于 | |
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imperviously
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| adv.透不过地 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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plumb
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| adv.精确地，完全地；v.了解意义，测水深 | |
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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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mosses
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| n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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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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40
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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41
fulfill
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| vt.履行，实现，完成；满足，使满意 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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43
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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45
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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46
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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47
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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49
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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50
snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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51
suites
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| n.套( suite的名词复数 )；一套房间；一套家具；一套公寓 | |
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52
palatial
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| adj.宫殿般的，宏伟的 | |
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53
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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54
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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55
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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56
covetous
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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57
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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58
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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59
accredit
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| vt.归功于，认为 | |
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60
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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61
relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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proprietorship
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| n.所有（权）；所有权 | |
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64
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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maneuvering
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| v.移动，用策略( maneuver的现在分词 )；操纵 | |
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66
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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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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vassals
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| n.奴仆( vassal的名词复数 )；（封建时代）诸侯；从属者；下属 | |
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70
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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72
inclemency
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| n.险恶，严酷 | |
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73
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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75
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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76
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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77
revolved
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 )；细想 | |
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78
temperaments
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| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
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79
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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80
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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81
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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82
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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83
housekeepers
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| n.（女）管家( housekeeper的名词复数 ) | |
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84
wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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85
retail
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| v./n.零售；adv.以零售价格 | |
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86
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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87
multiplication
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| n.增加，增多，倍增；增殖，繁殖；乘法 | |
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88
marketing
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| n.行销，在市场的买卖，买东西 | |
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89
dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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90
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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91
cisterns
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| n.蓄水池，储水箱( cistern的名词复数 )；地下储水池 | |
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93
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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94
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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95
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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96
trots
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| 小跑，急走( trot的名词复数 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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97
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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98
porous
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| adj.可渗透的，多孔的 | |
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99
earthenware
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| n.土器，陶器 | |
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100
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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101
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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102
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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103
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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104
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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105
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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106
melodiously
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107
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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108
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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109
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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110
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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111
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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112
resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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113
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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114
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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115
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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116
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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117
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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118
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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119
vender
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| n.小贩 | |
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120
pumpkin
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| n.南瓜 | |
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121
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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122
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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123
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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124
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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125
delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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126
larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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127
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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128
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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129
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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130
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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131
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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132
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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133
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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134
dryer
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| n.干衣机，干燥剂 | |
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135
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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136
tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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137
obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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138
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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139
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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140
knotty
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| adj.有结的，多节的，多瘤的，棘手的 | |
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141
chunks
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| 厚厚的一块( chunk的名词复数 )； （某物）相当大的数量或部分 | |
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142
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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143
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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144
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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145
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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146
artifices
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| n.灵巧( artifice的名词复数 )；诡计；巧妙办法；虚伪行为 | |
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147
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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148
plundered
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| 掠夺，抢劫( plunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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149
exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
stoutness
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| 坚固，刚毅 | |
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151
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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152
stoniness
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| 冷漠，一文不名 | |
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153
eels
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| abbr. 电子发射器定位系统（=electronic emitter location system） | |
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154
denouement
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| n.结尾，结局 | |
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155
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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156
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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157
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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158
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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159
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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160
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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161
frowziness
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| n.不整洁，闷热，有臭味 | |
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162
fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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163
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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164
abounding
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| adj.丰富的，大量的v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的现在分词 ) | |
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165
tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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166
pilfering
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| v.偷窃（小东西），小偷( pilfer的现在分词 )；偷窃（一般指小偷小摸） | |
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167
pillage
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| v.抢劫；掠夺；n.抢劫，掠夺；掠夺物 | |
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168
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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169
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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170
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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171
privy
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| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
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172
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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173
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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174
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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175
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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176
fathomless
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| a.深不可测的 | |
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177
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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178
aggregations
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| n.聚集( aggregation的名词复数 )；集成；集结；聚集体 | |
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179
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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180
incapability
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| n.无能 | |
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181
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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182
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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183
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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184
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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185
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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186
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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187
procures
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的第三人称单数 )；拉皮条 | |
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188
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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189
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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190
blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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191
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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192
scythe
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| n. 长柄的大镰刀，战车镰； v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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193
mowing
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| n.割草，一次收割量，牧草地v.刈，割( mow的现在分词 ) | |
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194
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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195
lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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196
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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197
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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198
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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199
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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200
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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201
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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202
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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203
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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204
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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205
levy
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| n.征收税或其他款项，征收额 | |
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206
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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207
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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208
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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209
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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210
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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211
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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212
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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213
hovers
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| 鸟( hover的第三人称单数 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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214
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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215
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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216
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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217
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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218
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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219
pawn
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| n.典当，抵押，小人物，走卒；v.典当，抵押 | |
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220
spout
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| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
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221
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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222
frowzy
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| adj.不整洁的；污秽的 | |
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223
transact
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| v.处理；做交易；谈判 | |
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224
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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225
succor
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| n.援助，帮助；v.给予帮助 | |
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226
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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227
arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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228
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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229
nepotism
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| n.任人唯亲；裙带关系 | |
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230
poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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231
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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232
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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233
gore
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| n.凝血，血污；v.（动物）用角撞伤，用牙刺破；缝以补裆；顶 | |
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234
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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235
clotted
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| adj.凝结的v.凝固( clot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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236
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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237
embellished
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| v.美化( embellish的过去式和过去分词 )；装饰；修饰；润色 | |
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238
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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239
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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240
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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241
victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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242
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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243
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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244
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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245
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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246
eluding
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的现在分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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247
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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248
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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249
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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250
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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251
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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252
voracity
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| n.贪食，贪婪 | |
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253
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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254
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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255
implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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256
tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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257
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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258
wading
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的现在分词 ) | |
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259
bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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260
croaks
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的第三人称单数 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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261
malediction
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| n.诅咒 | |
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262
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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263
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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264
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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265
savor
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| vt.品尝，欣赏；n.味道，风味；情趣，趣味 | |
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266
stimulation
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| n.刺激，激励，鼓舞 | |
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267
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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268
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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269
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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270
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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271
crookedness
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| [医]弯曲 | |
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272
upbraided
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| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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273
opprobrium
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| n.耻辱，责难 | |
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274
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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275
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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276
tardiness
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| n.缓慢；迟延；拖拉 | |
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277
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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278
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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279
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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280
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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281
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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282
lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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283
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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284
inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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285
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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286
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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287
pensioners
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| n.领取退休、养老金或抚恤金的人( pensioner的名词复数 ) | |
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288
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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289
subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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290
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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291
outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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