The philosophic8 vision, accustomed to relate trifling9 particulars to important generalities, may perhaps see another relic10 of Byzantine civilization among the Venetians, in that jealous restraint which they put upon all the social movements of young girls, and the great liberty which they allow to married women. It is true that their damsels are now no longer imprisoned11 under the parental12 roof, as they were in times when they never left its shelter but to go, closely veiled, to communion in the church, on Christmas and Easter; but it is still quite impossible that any young lady should go out alone. Indeed, she would scarcely be secure from insult in broad day if she did so. She goes out with her governess, and, even with this protection, she cannot be too guarded and circumspect13 in her bearing; for in Venice a woman has to encounter upon the public street a rude license14 of glance, from men of all ages and conditions, which falls little short of outrage15. They stare at her as she approaches; and I have seen them turn and contemplate16 ladies as they passed them, keeping a few paces in advance, with a leisurely17 sidelong gait. Something of this insolence18 might be forgiven to thoughtless, hot-blooded youth; but the gross and knowing leer that the elders of the Piazza19 and the caffè put on at the approach of a pretty girl is an ordeal20 which few women, not as thoroughly21 inured22 to it as the Venetians, would care to encounter. However, as I never heard the trial complained of by any but foreigners, I suppose it is not regarded by Italians as intolerable; and it is certain that an audible compliment, upon the street, to a pretty girl of the poor, is by no means an affront23.
The arts of pleasing and of coquetry come by nature to the gentler sex; and if in Italy they add to them a habit of intrigue24, I wonder how much they are to blame, never being in anywise trusted? They do not differ from persons of any age or sex in that country, if the world has been as justly, as it has always been firmly, persuaded that the people of Italy are effete25 in point of good faith. I have seen much to justify26 this opinion, and something also to confute it; and as long as Garibaldi lives, I shall not let myself believe that a race which could produce a man so signally truthful27 and single-hearted is a race of liars28 and cheats. I think the student of their character should also be slow to upbraid29 Italians for their duplicity, without admitting, in palliation of the fault, facts of long ages of alien and domestic oppression, in politics and religion, which must account for a vast deal of every kind of evil in Italy. Yet after exception and palliation has been duly made, it must be confessed that in Italy it does not seem to be thought shameful30 to tell lies, and that there the standard of sincerity31, compared with that of the English or American, is low, as the Italian standard of morality in ether respects is also comparatively low. With the women, bred in idleness and ignorance, the imputed32 national untruthfulness takes the form naturally to be expected, and contributes to a state of things which must be examined with the greatest caution and reservation by every one but the Italians themselves. Goethe says that there is no society so corrupt33 that a man may not live virtuously34 in it; and I think the immorality36 of any people will not be directly and wholly seen by the stranger who does not seek it. Certainly, the experience and acquaintance of a foreigner in Italy must have been most unfortunate, if they confirm all the stories of corruption37 told by Italians themselves. A little generous distrust is best in matters of this kind; but while I strengthen my incredulity concerning the utter depravation of Venetian society in one respect, I am not disposed to deal so leniently38 with it in others. The state of things is bad in Venice, not because all women in society are impure39, but because the Italian theory of morals does not admit the existence of opportunity without sin. It is by rare chance that a young girl makes acquaintance with young men in society; she seldom talks with them at the parties to which she is sometimes taken by her mother, and they do not call upon her at her home; while for her to walk alone with a young man would be vastly more scandalous than much worse things, and is, consequently, unheard of. The Italians say freely they cannot trust their women as northern women are trusted; and some Italian women frankly40 confess that their sex would be worse if it were trusted more. But the truth does not appear in this shallow suspicion and this shallow self-conviction; and one who cares to have a just estimate of this matter must by no means believe all the evil he hears. There may be much corruption in society, but there is infinitely41 more wrong in the habits of idle gossip and guilty scandal, which eat all sense of shame and pity out of the heart of Venice. There is no parallel to the prying43, tattling, backbiting44 littleness of the place elsewhere in the world. A small country village in America or England has its meddlesomeness46, but not its worldly, wicked sharpness. Figure the meanness of a chimney-corner gossip, added to the bitter shrewdness and witty47 penetration48 of a gifted roué, and you have some idea of Venetian scandal. In that city, where all the nobler organs of expression are closed by political conditions, the viler49 channels run continual filth50 and poison, and the people, shut out from public and free discussion of religious and political themes, occupy themselves with private slander51, and rend52 each other in their abject53 desperation. As it is part of the existing political demonstration54 to avoid the opera and theatre, the Venetians are deprived of these harmless distractions55; balls and evening parties, at which people, in other countries, do nothing worse than bore each other, are almost unknown, for the same reason; and when persons meet in society, it is too often to retail56 personalities57, or Italian politics made as unintelligible58 and as like local gossip as possible. The talk which is small and noxious59 in private circles is the same thing at the caffè, when the dread60 of spies does not reduce the talkers to a dreary61 silence. Not permitted to feel the currents of literature and the great world’s thought in religion freshly and directly, they seldom speak of these things, except in that tone of obsolete62 superiority which Italians are still prone63 to affect, as the monopolists of culture. As to Art, the Venetians are insensible to it and ignorant of it, here in the very atmosphere of Art, to a degree absolutely amusing. I would as soon think of asking a fish’s opinion of water as of asking a Venetian’s notion of architecture or painting, unless he were himself a professed64 artist or critic.
Admitting, however, that a great part of the corruption of society is imputed, there still remains65, no doubt, a great deal of real immorality to be accounted for. This, I think, is often to be attributed to the bad system of female education, and the habits of idleness in which women are bred. Indeed, to Americans, the whole system of Italian education seems calculated to reduce women to a state of imbecile captivity66 before marriage; and I have no fault to find with the Italians that they are jealous in guarding those whom they have unfitted to protect themselves, but have rather to blame them that, after marriage, their women are thrown at once upon society, when worse than helpless against its temptations. Except with those people who attempt to maintain a certain appearance in public upon insufficient68 means (and there are too many of these in Venice as everywhere else), and who spare in every other way that they may spend on dress, it does not often happen that Venetian ladies are housekeepers69. Servants are cheap and numerous, as they are uncleanly and untrustworthy, and the Venetians prefer to keep them 51 rather than take part in housewifely duties; and, since they must lavish71 upon dress and show, to suffer from cold and hunger in their fireless houses and at their meagre boards. In this way the young girls, kept imprisoned from the world, instead of learning cookery and other domestic arts, have the grievous burden of idleness added to that of their solitary72 confinement73, not only among the rich and noble, but among that large class which is neither and wishes to appear both. 52 Their idle thoughts, not drilled by study nor occupied with work, run upon the freedom which marriage shall bring them, and form a distorted image of the world, of which they know as little as of their own undisciplined selves. Denied the just and wholesome74 amusements of society during their girlhood, it is scarcely a matter of surprise that they should throw themselves into the giddiest whirl of its excitement when marriage sets them free to do so.
I have said I do not think Venetians who give each other bad names are always to be credited, and I have no doubt that many a reputation in Venice is stained while the victim remains without guilt42. A questioned reputation is, however, no great social calamity75. It forms no bar to society, and few people are so cruel as to blame it, though all discuss it. And it is here that the harshness of American and English society toward the erring76 woman (harshness which is not injustice77, but half-justice only) contrasts visibly to our advantage over the bad na?veté and lenity of the Italians. The carefully secluded78 Italian girl is accustomed to hear of things and speak of things which, with us, parents strive in every way to keep from their daughters’ knowledge; and while her sense of delicacy79 is thus early blunted, while she is thus used to know good and evil, she hears her father and mother comment on the sinful errors of a friend or neighbor, who visits them and meets them every day in society. How can the impunity80 of the guilt which she believes to exist around her but sometimes have its effect, and ripen81, with opportunity, into wrong? Nay82, if the girl reveres84 her parents at all, how can she think the sin, which they caress85 in the sinner, is so very bad? If, however, she escape all these early influences of depravation; if her idleness, and solitude86 and precocious87 knowledge leave her unvitiated, if, when she goes into society, it is by marriage with a man who is neither a dotard nor a fortune-seeker, and who remains constant and does not tempt67 her, by neglect, to forbode offense88 and to inflict89 anticipative reprisals—yet her purity goes uncredited, as her guilt would go unpunished; scandal makes haste to blacken her name to the prevailing90 hue91; and whether she has sin or not, those with sin will cast, not the stone that breaks and kills, but the filth that sticks and stinks92. The wife must continue the long social exile of her girlhood if she would not be the prey93 of scandal. The cavaliere servente no longer exists, but gossip now attributes often more than one lover in his place, and society has the cruel clemency94 to wink95 at the license. Nothing is in worse taste than jealousy96, and, consequently, though intrigue sometimes causes stabbing, and the like, among low people, it is rarely noticed by persons of good breeding. It seems to me that in Venetian society the reform must begin, not with dissolute life, but with the social toleration of the impure, and with the wanton habits of scandal, which make all other life incredible, and deny to virtue97 the triumph of fair fame.
I confess that what I saw of the innocent amusements of this society was not enough to convince me of their brilliancy and attractiveness; but I doubt if a foreigner can be a trustworthy judge of these things, and perhaps a sketch98 drawn99 by an alien hand, in the best faith, might have an air of caricature. I would not, therefore, like to trust my own impression of social diversions. They were, very probably, much more lively and brilliant than I thought them. But Italians assembled anywhere, except at the theatre or the caffè, have a certain stiffness, all the more surprising, because tradition has always led one to expect exactly the reverse of them. I have seen nothing equal to the formality of this people, who deride100 colder nations for inflexible101 manners; and I have certainly never seen society in any small town in America so ill at ease as I have seen society in Venice, writhing102 under self-imposed restraints. At a musical soirée, attended by the class of people who at home would have been chatty and sociable103, given to making acquaintance and to keeping up acquaintance,—the young men harmlessly talking and walking with the young ladies, and the old people listening together, while constant movement and intercourse104 kept life in the assembly, and there was some real pleasure felt amidst a good deal of unavoidable suffering,—I say, I found such a soirée in Venice to be a spectacle of ladies planted in formal rows of low-necks and white dresses around the four sides of one room, and of gentlemen restively105 imprisoned in dress-coats and white gloves in another. During the music all these devoted106 people listened attentively107, and at the end, the ladies lapsed108 back into their chairs and fanned themselves, while the gentlemen walked up and down the floor of their cell, and stopped, two by two, at the door of the ladies’ room, glanced mournfully athwart the moral barrier which divided them, and sadly and dejectedly turned away. Amazed at this singular species of social enjoyment109, I inquired afterward110, of a Venetian lady, if evening parties in Venice were usually such ordeals111, and was discouraged to learn that what I had seen was scarcely an exaggeration of prevailing torments112. Commonly people do not know each other, and it is difficult for the younger to procure113 introductions; and when there is previous acquaintance, the presence of some commanding spirit is necessary to break the ice of propriety114, and substitute enjoyment for correctness of behavior. Even at dancing parties, where it would seem that the poetry of motion might do something to soften115 the rigid116 bosom117 of Venetian deportment, the poor young people separate after each dance, and take each sex its appointed prison, till the next quadrille offers them a temporary liberation. For my own part, I cannot wonder that young men fly these virtuous35 scenes, and throng118 the rooms of those pleasant women of the demi-monde, who only exact from them that they shall be natural and agreeable; I cannot wonder that their fair partners in wretchedness seize the first opportunity to revenge themselves upon the propriety which has so cruelly used them. It is said that the assemblies of the Jews, while quite as unexceptionable in character, are far more sociable and lively than those of the Christians120. The young Hebrews are frequently intelligent, well-bred, and witty, with a savoir faire which their Christian119 brethren lack. But, indeed, the young Venetian is, at that age when all men are owlish, ignorant, and vapid121, the most owlish, ignorant, and vapid man in the world. He talks, not milk-and-water, but warm water alone, a little sweetened; and, until he has grown wicked, has very little good in him.
Most ladies of fashion receive calls on a certain day of each week, when it is made a matter of pride to receive as many calls as possible. The number sometimes reaches three hundred, when nobody sits down, and few exchange more than a word with the hostess. In winter, the stove is heated on these reception days, and little cups of black coffee are passed round to the company; in summer lemonade is substituted for the coffee; but in all seasons a thin, waferish slice of toasted rusk (the Venetian baicolo) is offered to each guest with the drink. At receptions where the sparsity122 of the company permits the lady of the house to be seen, she is commonly visible on a sofa, surrounded by visitors in a half-circle. Nobody stays more than ten or fifteen minutes, and I have sometimes found even this brief time of much greater apparent length, and apt to produce a low state of nerves, from which one seldom recovers before dinner. Gentlemen, however, do not much frequent these receptions; and I assert again the diffidence I should feel in offering this glance at Venetian social enjoyment as conveying a just and full idea of it. There is no doubt that the Venetians find delight in their assemblies, where a stranger seeks it in vain. I dare say they would not think our own reunions brilliant, and that, looking obliquely123 (as a foreigner must) on the most sensible faces at one of our evening parties, they might mistake the look of pathetic dejection, visible in them, as the expression of people rather bored by their pleasure than otherwise.
The conversazioni are of all sorts, from the conversazioni of the rigid proprietarians, where people sit down to a kind of hopeless whist, at a soldo the point, and say nothing, to the conversazioni of the demi-monde where they say any thing. There are persons in Venice, as well as everywhere else, of new-fashioned modes of thinking, and these strive to give a greater life and ease to their assemblies, by attracting as many young men as possible; and in their families, gentlemen are welcome to visit, and to talk with the young ladies in the presence of their mothers. But though such people are no more accused of impropriety than the straitest of the old-fashioned, they are not regarded with the greatest esteem124, and their daughters do not so readily find husbands. The Italians are fickle125, the women say; they get soon tired of their wives after marriage, and when they see much of ladies before marriage, they get tired of them then, and never make them their wives. So it is much better to see nothing of a possible husband till you actually have him. I do not think conversazioni of any kind are popular with young men, however; they like better to go to the caffè, and the people you meet at private houses are none the less interesting for being old, or middle-aged126. A great many of the best families, at present, receive no company at all, and see their friends only in the most private manner; though there are still cultivated circles to which proper introduction gives the stranger (who has no Austrian acquaintance) access. But unless he have thorough knowledge of Italian politics localized to apply to Venice, an interest in the affairs, fortunes, and misfortunes of his neighbors, and an acquaintance with the Venetian dialect, I doubt if he will be able to enjoy himself in the places so cautiously opened to him. Even in the most cultivated society, the dialect is habitually127 spoken; and if Italian is used, it is only in compliment to some foreigner present, for whose sake, also, topics of general interest are sometimes chosen.
The best society is now composed of the families of professional men, such as the advocates, the physicians, and the richer sort of merchants. The shopkeepers, master-artisans, and others, whom industry and thrift129 distinguish from the populace, seem not to have any social life, in the American sense. They are wholly devoted to affairs, and partly from choice, and partly from necessity, are sordid130 and grasping. It is their class which has to fight hardest for life in Europe, and they give no quarter to those above or below them. The shop is their sole thought and interest, and they never, never sink it. But, since they have habits of diligence, and, as far as they are permitted, of enterprise, they seem to be in great part the stuff from which a prosperous State is to be rebuilt in Venice, if ever the fallen edifice131 rise again. They have sometimes a certain independence of character, which a better condition of things, and further education, would perhaps lift into honesty; though as yet they seem not to scruple133 to take any unfair advantage, and not to know that commercial success can never rest permanently134 on a system of bad faith. Below this class is the populace, between which and the patrician135 order a relation something like Roman clientage existed, contributing greatly to the maintenance of exclusively aristocratic power in the State. The greatest conspiracy136 (that of Marin Falier) which the commons ever moved against the oligarchy137 was revealed to one of the nobility by his plebeian138 creature, or client; and the government rewarded by every species of indulgence a class in which it had extinguished even the desire of popular liberty. The heirs of the servile baseness which such a system as this must create are not yet extinct. There is still a helplessness in many of the servant class, and a disposition139 to look for largess as well as wages, which are the traits naturally resulting from a state of voluntary submission140 to others. The nobles, as the government, enervated141 and debauched the character of the poor by public shows and countless142 holidays; as individuals, they taught them to depend upon patrician favor, and not upon their own plebeian industry, for support. The lesson was an evil one, hard to be unlearned, and it is yet to be forgotten in Venice. Certain traits of soft and familiar dependence132 give great charm to the populace; but their existence makes the student doubtful of a future to which the plebeians143 themselves look forward with perfect hope and confidence. It may be that they are right, and will really rise to the dignity of men, when free government shall have taught them that the laborer144 is worthy70 of his hire—after he has earned it. This has been the result, to some degree, in the kingdom of Italy, where the people have found that freedom, like happiness, means work.
Undoubtedly145 the best people in the best society of Venice are the advocates, an order of consequence even in the times of the Republic, though then shut out from participation146 in public affairs by a native government, as now by a foreign one. Acquaintance with several members of this profession impressed me with a sense of its liberality of thought and feeling, where all liberal thinking and feeling must be done by stealth, and where the common intelligence of the world sheds its light through multiplied barriers. Daniele Manin, the President of the Republic of 1848, was of this class, which, by virtue of its learning, enlightenment, and talent, occupies a place in the esteem and regard of the Venetian people far above that held by the effete aristocracy. The better part of the nobility, indeed, is merged147 in the professional class, and some of the most historic names are now preceded by the learned titles of Doctor and Advocate, rather than the cheap dignity of Count, offered by the Austrian government to all the patricians148 who chose to ask for it, when Austrian rule was extended over their country.
The physicians rank next to the advocates, and are usually men learned in their profession, however erroneous and old-fashioned some of their theories of practice may be. Like the advocates, they are often men of letters: they write for the journals, and publish little pamphlets on those topics of local history which it is so much the fashion to treat in Venice. No one makes a profession of authorship. The returns of an author’s work would be too uncertain, and its restrictions149 and penalties would be too vexatious and serious; and so literary topics are only occasionally treated by those whose main energies are bent150 in another direction.
The doctors are very numerous, and a considerable number of them are Hebrews, who, even in the old jealous times, exercised the noble art of medicine, and who now rank very highly among their professional brethren. These physicians haunt the neat and tasteful apothecary151 shops, where they sit upon the benching that passes round the interior, read the newspapers, and discuss the politics of Europe, Asia, Africa, and America, with all the zest152 that you may observe to characterize their discussions in Goldoni’s plays. There they spend their evenings, and many hours of every day, and thither153 the sick send to call them,—each physician resorting to a particular apothecary’s, and keeping his name inscribed154 on a brass155 plate against the wall, above the head of the druggist, who presides over the reunions of the doctors, while his apprentice156 pestles157 away at their prescriptions158.
In 1786 there were, what with priests, monks159, and nuns160, a multitude of persons of ecclesiastical profession in Venice; and though many convents and monasteries162 were abolished by Napoleon, the priests are still very numerous, and some monastic establishments have been revived under Austrian rule. The high officers of the Church are, of course, well paid, but most of the priesthood live miserably163 enough. They receive from the government a daily stipend164 of about thirty-five soldi, and they celebrate mass when they can get something to do in that way, for forty soldi. Unless, then, they have private income from their own family, or have pay for the education of some rich man’s son or daughter, they must fare slenderly.
There is much said, in and out of Venice, about their influence in society; but this is greatly modified, and I think is chiefly exercised upon the women of the old-fashioned families. 53 I need hardly repeat the wellknown fact that all the moral power of the Roman Church over the younger men is gone; these seldom attend mass, and almost never go to confession165, and the priests are their scorn and by-word. Their example, in some degree, must be much followed also by women; and though women must everywhere make more public professions of religion than men, in order to retain social standing166, I doubt if the priests have a very firm hold upon the fears or reverence167 of the sisters and wives of liberal Venetians.
If, however, they contribute in anywise to keep down the people, they are themselves enslaved to their superiors and to each other. No priest can leave the city of Venice without permission of the Patriarch. He is cut off as much as possible from his own kinspeople, and subjected to the constant surveillance of his class. Obliged to maintain a respectable appearance on twenty cents a day,—hampered and hindered from all personal liberty and private friendship, and hated by the great mass of the people,—I hardly think the Venetian priest is to be envied in his life. For my own part, knowing these things, I was not able to cherish toward the priests those feelings of scornful severity which swell168 many Protestant bosoms169; and so far as I made their acquaintance, I found them kind and amiable170. One ecclesiastic161, at least, I may describe as one of the most agreeable and cultivated gentlemen I ever met.
Those who fare best among the priests are the Jesuits, who returned from repeated banishment171 with the Austrians in this century. Their influence is very extended, and the confessional is their forte172. Venetians say that with the old and the old-fashioned these crafty173 priests suggest remorse174 and impose penances175; that with the young men and the latter-day thinkers they are men of the world, and pass off pleasant sins as trifles. All the students of the government schools are obliged by law to confess twice a month, and are given printed certificates of confession, in blank, which the confessor fills up and stamps with the seal of the Church. Most of them go to confess at the church of the Jesuits, who are glad to hear the cock-and-bull story invented by the student, and to cultivate his friendship by an easy penance176 and a liberal tone. This ingenuous177 young man of course despises the confessional. He goes to confess because the law obliges him to do so; but the law cannot dictate178 what he must confess. Therefore, he ventures as near downright burlesque179 as he dares, and (if the account he gives of the matter be true) puts off his confessor with some well-known fact, as that he has blasphemed. Of course he has blasphemed, blasphemy180 being as common as the forms of salutation in Venice. So the priest, who wishes him to come again, and to found some sort of influence over him, says,—“Oh dear, dear! This is very bad. Blasphemy is deadly sin. If you must swear, swear by the heathen gods: say Body of Diana, instead of Body of God; Presence of the Devil, instead of Blood of Mary. Then there is no harm done.” The students laugh over the pleasant absurdity181 together, and usually agree upon the matter of their semimonthly confessions182 beforehand.
As I have hinted, the young men do not love the government or the Church, and though I account for the loss of much high hope and generous sympathy in growth from youth to middle age, I cannot see how, when they have replaced their fathers, the present religious and political discontent is to be modified. Nay, I believe it must become worse. The middle-aged men of Venice grew up in times of comparative quiet, when she did not so much care who ruled over her, and negatively, at least, they honored the Church. They may now hate the foreign rule, but there are many considerations of timidity, and many effects of education, to temper their hate. They may dislike the priests, but they revere83 the Church. The young men of to-day are bred in a different school, and all their thoughts are of opposition183 to the government and of war upon the Church, which they detest184 and ridicule185. The fact that their education is still in the hands of the priests in some measure, does not render them more tractable186. They have no fears to be wrought187 upon by their clerical professors, who seldom have sought to act upon their nobler qualities. The influence of the priesthood is again limited by the fact that the teachers in the free schools of the city, to which the poor send their children, are generally not priests; and ecclesiastics188 are no longer so commonly the private tutors of the children of the rich, as they once were when they lived with the family, and exercised a direct and important influence on it. Express permission from the pope is now necessary to the maintenance of a family chaplain, and the office is nearly disused. 54
The Republic was extremely jealous of the political power of the priests, who could not hold secular189 office in its time. A curious punishment was inflicted190 upon the priest who proved false to his own vows191 of chastity, and there is a most amusing old ballad—by no means cleanly in its language—purporting to be the lament192 of a priest suspended in the iron cage, appointed for the purpose, from the belfry of the Campanile San Marco, and enduring the jeers193 and insults of the mob below. We may suppose that with advancing corruption (if corruption has indeed advanced from remote to later times) this punishment was disused for want of room to hang out the delinquents194. In the last century, especially, the nuns and monks led a pleasant life. You may see in the old pictures of Pietro Longhi and his school, how at the aristocratic and fashionable convent of San Zaccaria, the lady nuns received their friends and acquaintances of this world in the anteroom, where the dames195 and their cavaliers flirted196 and drank coffee, and the gentlemen coquetted with the brides of heaven through their grated windows.
Among other privileges of the Church, abolished in Venice long ago, was that ancient right of the monks of St. Anthony, Abbot, by which their herds197 of swine were made free of the whole city. These animals, enveloped198 in an odor of sanctity, wandered here and there, and were piously199 fed by devout200 people, until the year 1409, when, being found dangerous to children and inconvenient201 to every body, they were made the subject of a special decree, which deprived them of their freedom of movement. The Republic was always limiting the privileges of the Church! It is known how when the holy inquisition was established in its dominions202 in 1249, the State stipulated203 that great part of the process against heresy204 should be conducted by secular functionaries205, and that the sentence should rest with the Doge and his councillors,—a kind of inquisition with claws clipped and teeth filed, as one may say, and the only sort ever permitted in Venice. At present there is no absolute disfavor shown to the clergy206; but, as we have seen, many a pleasant island, which the monks of old reclaimed207 from the salty marshes208, and planted with gardens and vineyards, now bears only the ruins of their convents, or else, converted into a fortress209 or government dép?t, is all thistly with bayonets. Anciently, moreover, there were many little groves210 in different parts of the city, where the pleasant clergy, of what Mr. Ruskin would have us believe the pure and religious days of Venice, met and made merry so riotously211 together by night that the higher officers of the Church were forced to prohibit their little soirées.
An old custom of rejoicing over the installation of a new parish priest is still to be seen in almost primitive213 quaintness214. The people of each parish—nobles, citizens, and plebeians alike—formerly elected their own priest, and, till the year 1576, they used to perambulate the city to the sound of drums, with banners flying, after an election, and proclaim the name of their favorite. On the day of the parroco‘s induction215 his portrait was placed over the church door and after the celebration of the morning mass, a breakfast was given, which grew to be so splendid in time, that in the fifteenth century a statute216 limited its profusion217. In the afternoon the new parroco, preceded by a band of military music, visited all the streets and courts of his parish, and then, as now, all the windows of the parish were decorated with brilliant tapestries218, and other gay-colored cloths and pictures. In those times as in these, there was an illumination at night, throngs219 of people in the campo of the church, and booths for traffic in cakes of flour and raisins,—fried in lard upon the spot, and sold smoking hot, with immense uproar220 on the part of the merchant; and for three days afterward the parish bells were sounded in concert.
The difficulty of ascertaining221 any thing with certainty in Venice attends in a degree peculiarly great the effort to learn exactly the present influence and standing of the nobility as a class. One is tempted222, on observing the free and unembarrassed bearing of all ranks of people toward each other, to say that no sense of difference exists,—and I do not think there is ever shown, among Italians, either the aggressive pride or the abject meanness which marks the intercourse of people and nobles elsewhere in Europe, and I have not seen the distinction of rich and poor made so brutally223 in Italy as sometimes in our own soi-disant democratic society at home. There is, indeed, that equality in Italian fibre which I believe fits the nation for democratic institutions better than any other, and which is perhaps partly the result of their ancient civilization. At any rate, it fascinates a stranger to see people so mutually gentle and deferential224; and must often be a matter of surprise to the Anglo-Saxon, in whose race, reclaimed from barbarism more recently, the native wild-beast is still so strong as to sometimes inform the manner. The uneducated Anglo-Saxon is a savage225; the Italian, though born to utter ignorance, poverty, and depravity, is a civilized226 man. I do not say that his civilization is of a high order, or that the civilization of the most cultivated Italian is at all comparable to that of a gentleman among ourselves. The Italian’s education, however profound, has left his passions undisciplined, while it has carefully polished his manner; he yields lightly to temptation, he loses his self-control, he blasphemes habitually; his gentleness is conventional, his civilization not individual. With us the education of a gentleman (I do not mean a person born to wealth or station, but any man who has trained himself in morals or religion, in letters, and in the world) disciplines the impulses, and leaves the good manner to grow naturally out of habits of self-command and consequent habitual128 self-respect.
The natural equality of the Italians is visible in their community of good looks as well as good manners. They have never, perhaps, that high beauty of sensitive expression which is found among Englishmen and Americans (preferably among the latter), but it very rarely happens that they are brutally ugly; and the man of low rank and mean vocation227 has often a beauty of as fine sort as the man of education and refinement228. If they changed clothes, and the poor man could be persuaded to wash himself, they might successfully masquerade, one for another. The plebeian Italian, inspired by the national vanity, bears himself as proudly as the noble, without at all aggressing in his manner. His beauty, like that of the women of his class, is world-old,—the beauty of the pictures and the statues: the ideal types of loveliness are realized in Italy; the saints and heroes, the madonnas and nymphs, come true to the stranger at every encounter with living faces. In Venice, particularly, the carriage of the women, of whatever rank, is very free and noble, and the servant is sometimes to be distinguished229 from the mistress only by her dress and by her labor-coarsened hands; certainly not always by her dirty finger-nails and foul230 teeth, for though the clean shirt is now generally in Italy, some lesser231 virtues232 are still unknown: the nail-brush and tooth-brush are of but infrequent use; the four-pronged fork is still imperfectly understood, and as a nation the Italians may be said to eat with their knives.
The Venetian, then, seeing so little difference between himself and others, whatever his rank may be, has, as I said, little temptation to arrogance234 or servility. The effects of the old relationship of patron and client are amusingly noticeable in the superior as well as the inferior; a rich man’s dependents are perfectly233 free with advice and comment, and it sometimes happens that he likes to hear their lively talk, and at home secretly consorts235 with his servants. The former social differences between commoners and patricians (which, I think, judging from the natural temper of the race, must have been greatly modified at all times by concession236 and exception) may be said to have quite disappeared in point of fact; the nobility is now almost as effete socially as it is politically. There is still a number of historic families, which are in a certain degree exclusive; but rich parvenus237 have admission to their friendship, and commoners in good circumstances are permitted their acquaintance; the ladies of this patrician society visit ladies of less rank, and receive them at their great parties, though not at more sacred assemblies, where they see only each other.
The Venetians have a habit of saying their best families are in exile, but this is not meant to be taken literally238. Many of the best families are yet in the city, living in perfect retirement239, or very often merged in the middle class, and become men of professions, and active, useful lives. Of these nobles (they usually belong to the families which did not care to ask nobility of Austria, and are therefore untitled) 55 the citizens are affectionately proud, while I have heard from them nothing but contempt and ridicule of the patricians who, upon a wretched pension or meagre government office, attempt to maintain patrician distinction. Such nobles are usually Austriacanti in their politics, and behind the age in every thing; while there are other descendants of patrician families mingled240 at last with the very populace, sharing their ignorance and degradation241, and feeling with them. These sometimes exercise the most menial employments: I knew one noble lord who had been a facchino, and I heard of another who was a street-sweeper. Conte che non conta, non conta niente, 56 says the sneering242 Italian proverb; and it would be little less than miraculous243 if a nobility like that of modern Venice maintained superior state and regard in the eyes of the quick-witted, intelligent, sarcastic244 commonalty.
The few opulent patricians are by no means the most violent of Italianissimi. They own lands and houses, and as property is unsafe when revolutionary feeling is rife245, their patriotism246 is tempered. The wealth amassed247 in early times by the vast and enterprising commerce of the country was, when not dissipated in riotous212 splendor248, invested in real estate upon the main-land as the Republic grew in territory, and the income of the nobles is now from the rents of these lands. They reside upon their estates during the season of the villeggiatura, which includes the months of September and October, when every one who can possibly leave the city goes into the country. Then the patricians betake themselves to their villas249 near Padua, Vicenza, Bassano, and Treviso, and people the sad-colored, weather-worn stucco hermitages, where the mutilated statues, swaggering above the gates, forlornly commemorate250 days when it was a far finer thing to be a noble than it is now. I say the villas look dreary and lonesome as places can be made to look in Italy, what with their high garden walls, their long, low piles of stabling, and the passée indecency of their nymphs and fauns, foolishly strutting251 in the attitudes of the silly and sinful old Past; and it must be but a dull life that the noble proprietors252 lead there.
It is better, no doubt, on the banks of the Brenta, where there are still so many villas as to form a street of these seats of luxury, almost the whole length of the canal, from Fusina to Padua. I am not certain that they have a right to the place which they hold in literature and sentiment, and yet there is something very charming about them, with their gardens, and chapels254, and statues, and shaded walks. We went to see them one day early in October, and found them every one, when habitable, inhabited, and wearing a cheerful look, that made their proximity255 to Venice incredible. As we returned home after dark, we saw the ladies from the villas walking unattended along the road, and giving the scene an air of homelike peace and trustfulness which I had not found before in Italy; while the windows of the houses were brilliantly lighted, as if people lived in them; whereas, you seldom see a light in Venetian palaces. I am not sure that I did not like better, however, the villas that were empty and ruinous, and the gardens that had run wild, and the statues that had lost legs and arms. Some of the ingenious proprietors had enterprisingly whitewashed256 their statues, and there was a horrible primness257 about certain of the well-kept gardens which offended me. Most of the houses were not large, but there was here and there a palace as grand as any in the city. Such was the great villa45 of the Contarini of the Lions, which was in every way superb, with two great lions of stone guarding its portals, and a gravel258 walk, over-arched with stately trees, stretching a quarter of a mile before it. At the moment I was walking down this aisle259 I met a cleanshaven old canonico, with red legs and red-tasseled hat, and with a book under his arm, and a meditative260 look, whom I here thank for being so venerably picturesque261. The palace itself was shut up, and I wish I had known, when I saw it, that it had a ghostly underground passage from its cellar to the chapel253,—wherein, when you get half way, your light goes out, and you consequently never reach the chapel.
This is at Mira; but the greatest of all the villas is the magnificent country-seat of the family Pisani at Stra, which now, with scarcely any addition to its splendor, serves for the residence of the abdicated262 Emperor of Austria. There is such pride in the vastness of this edifice and its gardens as impresses you with the material greatness which found expression in it, and never raises a regret that it has utterly263 passed away. You wander around through the aisles264 of trim-cut lime-trees, bullied265 and overborne by the insolent266 statues, and expect at every turn to come upon intriguing267 spectres in bag-wigs, immense hoops268 and patches. How can you feel sympathy for those dull and wicked ghosts of eighteenth-century corruption? There is rottenness enough in the world without digging up old putridity269 and sentimentalizing on it; and I doubt if you will care to know much of the way in which the noble owner of such a villa ascended270 the Brenta at the season of the villeggiatura in his great gilded271 barge272, all carven outside with the dumpling loves and loose nymphs of the period, with fruits, and flowers, and what not; and within, luxuriously273 cushioned and furnished, and stocked with good things for pleasure making in the gross old fashion. 57 King Cole was not a merrier old soul than Illustrissimo of that day; he outspent princes; and his agent, while he harried274 the tenants275 to supply his master’s demands, plundered276 Illustrissimo frightfully. Illustrissimo never looked at accounts. He said to his steward277, ”Caro veccio, fè vu. Mi remeto a quel che fè vu.“ (Old fellow, you attend to it. I shall be satisfied with what you do.) So the poor agent had no other course but to swindle him, which he did; and Illustrissimo, when he died, died poor, and left his lordly debts and vices278 to his sons.
In Venice, the noble still lives sometimes in his ancestral palace, dimly occupying the halls where his forefathers279 flourished in so much splendor. I can conceive, indeed, of no state of things more flattering to human pride than that which surrounded the patrician of the old aristocratic Republic. The house in which he dwelt was the palace of a king, in luxury of appointment and magnificence of size. Troops of servants that ministered to his state peopled its vast extent; and the gondolas280 that carried his grandeur281 abroad were moored282 in little fleets to the piles that rose before his palace, painted with the family arms and colors. The palace itself stood usually on the Grand Canal, and rose sheer from the water, giving the noble that haughty283 inaccessibility284 which the lord of the main-land achieved only by building lofty walls and multiplying gates. The architecture was as costly285 in its ornament286 as wild Gothic fancy, or Renaissance287 luxury of bad taste, could make it; and when the palace front was not of sculptured marble, the painter’s pencil filled it with the delight of color. The main-land noble’s house was half a fortress, and formed his stronghold in times of popular tumult288 or family fray289; but at Venice the strong arm of St. Mark suppressed all turbulence290 in a city secure from foreign war; and the peaceful arts rejoiced in undisturbed possession of the palaces, which rose in the most delicate and fantastic beauty, and mirrored in the brine a dream of sea-deep strangeness and richness. You see much of the beauty yet, but the pride and opulence291 which called it into being are gone forever.
Most palaces, whether of the Gothic or classicistic period, have the same internal arrangement of halls and chambers292, and are commonly built of two lofty and two low stories. On the ground floor, or water level, is a hall running back from the gate to a bit of garden at the other side of the palace; and on either side of this hall, which in old times was hung with the family trophies293 of the chase and war, are the porter’s lodge294 and gondoliers’ rooms. On the first and second stories are the family apartments, opening on either side from great halls, of the same extent as that below, but with loftier roofs, of heavy rafters gilded or painted. The fourth floor is of the same arrangement, but has a lower roof, and was devoted to the better class of servants. Of the two stories used by the family, the third is the loftier and airier, and was occupied in summer; the second was the winter apartment. On either hand the rooms open in suites295.
We have seen something of the ceremonies, public and private, which gave peculiar6 gayety and brilliance296 to the life of the Venetians of former days; but in his political character the noble had yet greater consequence. He was part of the proudest, strongest, and securest system of his time. He was a king with the fellowship of kings, flattered with the equality of an aristocracy which was master of itself, and of its nominal297 head. During the earlier times it was his office to go daily to Rialto and instruct the people in their political rights and duties for four hours; and even when the duties became every thing and the rights nothing (after the Serrar del Consiglio), the friendly habit of daily intercourse between patricians and citizens was still kept up at the same place. Once each week, and on every holiday, the noble took his seat in the Grand Council (the most august assembly in the world, without doubt), or the Ten, or the Three, according to his office in the State,—holding his place in the Council by right of birth, and in the other bodies by election of his peers.
Although the patricians were kept as one family apart from the people, and jealously guarded in their aristocratic purity by the State, they were only equals of the poorest before the laws of their own creation, and their condescension298 to the people was frequent and great. Indeed, the Venetians of all classes are social creatures, loving talk and gossip, and these constant habits of intercourse must have done much to produce that equality of manner now observable in them. Their amusements were for a long time the same, the nobles taking part in the public holidays, and in the popular exercises of rowing and swimming. In the earlier times, hunting in the lagoons299 was a favorite diversion; but as the decay of the Republic advanced, and the patrician blossomed into the fine gentleman of the last century, these hearty300 sports were relinquished301, and every thing was voted vulgar but masking in carnival302, dancing and gaming at Ridotto, and intriguing everywhere.
The accounts which Venetian writers give of Republican society in the eighteenth century form a chronique scandaleuse which need not be minutely copied here. Much may be learned of Venetian manners of this time from the comedies of Goldoni; and the faithlessness of society may be argued from the fact that in these plays, which contain nothing salacious or indecent, there is scarcely a character of any rank who scruples303 to tell lies; and the truth is not to be found in works intended to school the public to virtue. The ingenious old playwright’s memoirs304 are full of gossip concerning that poor old Venice, which is now no more; and the worthy autobiographer305, Casanova, also gives much information about things that had best not be known.
As the Republic drew near its fall, in 1797, there was little left in its dominant306 class worth saving, if we may believe the testimony307 of Venetians which Mutinelli brings to bear upon the point in his “Annali Urbani,” and his “History of the Last Fifty Years of the Republic.” Long prosperity and prodigious308 opulence had done their worst, and the patricians, and the lowest orders of the people, their creatures and dependants309, were thoroughly corrupt; while the men of professions began to assume that station which they now hold. The days of a fashionable patrician of those times began at a little before sunset, and ended with the following dawn. Rising from his bed, he dressed himself in dainty linen310, and placed himself in the hands of the hairdresser to be combed, oiled, perfumed, and powdered; and then sallied forth311 for a stroll through the Merceria, where this excellent husband and father made tasteful purchases to be carried to the lady he served. At dinner, which he took about seven or eight, his board was covered with the most tempting312 viands313, and surrounded by needy314 parasites315, who detailed316 the spicy317 scandals of the day in payment of their dinner, while the children of the host were confided318 to the care of the corrupt and negligent319 servants. After dinner, the father went to the theatre, or to the casino, and spent the night over cards and wine, in the society of dissolute women; and renewed on the morrow the routine of his useful existence. The education of the children of the man of fashion was confided to a priest, who lived in his family, and called himself an abbate, after the mode of the abbés of French society; he had winning manners with the ladies, indulgent habits with his pupils, and dressed his elegant person in silks of Lyons and English broadcloths. In the pleasant old days he flitted from palace to villa, dining and supping, and flattering the ladies, and tapping the lid of his jeweled snuffbox in all fashionable companies. He was the cadet of a patrician family (when not the ambitious son of a low family), with a polite taste for idleness and intrigue, for whom no secular sinecure320 could be found in the State, and who obliged the Church by accepting orders. Whether in the palace on the Grand Canal, or the villa on the Brenta, this gentle and engaging priest was surely the most agreeable person to be met, and the most dangerous to ladies’ hearts,—with his rich suit of black, and his smug, clean-shaven face, and his jeweled hands, and his sweet, seducing321 manners. Alas322! the world is changed! The priests whom you see playing tre-sette now at the conversazioni are altogether different men, and the delightful323 abbate is as much out of fashion as the bag-wig or the queue. When in fashion he loved the theatre, and often showed himself there at the side of his noble patron’s wife. Nay, in that time the theatre was so prized by the Church that a popular preacher thought it becoming to declare from his pulpit that to compose well his hearers should study the comedies of Goldoni,—and his hearers were the posterity324 of that devout old aristocracy which never undertook a journey without first receiving the holy sacrament; which had built the churches and endowed them from private wealth!
Ignorance, as well as vice1, was the mode in those elegant days, and it is related that a charming lady of good society once addressed a foreign savant at her conversazione, and begged him to favor the company with a little music, because, having heard that he was virtuous, she had no other association with the word than its technical use in Italy to indicate a professional singer as a virtuoso325. A father of a family who kept no abbate for the education of his children ingeniously taught them himself. “Father,” asked one of his children, “what are the stars?” “The stars are stars, and little things that shine as thou seest.” “Then they are candles, perhaps?” “Make thy account that they are candles exactly.” “Of wax or tallow?” pursues the boy. “What! tallow-candles in heaven? No, certainly—wax, wax!”
These, and many other scandalous stories, the Venetian writers recount of the last days of their Republic, and the picture they produce is one of the most shameless ignorance, the most polite corruption, the most unblushing baseness. I have no doubt that the picture is full of national exaggeration. Indeed, the method of Mutinelli (who I believe intends to tell the truth) in writing social history is altogether too credulous326 and incautious. It is well enough to study contemporary comedy for light upon past society, but satirical ballads327 and lampoons328, and scurrilous329 letters, cannot be accepted as historical authority. Still there is no question but Venice was very corrupt. As you read of her people in the last century, one by one the ideas of family faith and domestic purity fade away; one by one the beliefs in public virtue are dissipated; until at last you are glad to fly the study, close the filthy330 pages, and take refuge in doubt of the writers, who declare that they must needs disgrace Venice with facts since her children have dishonored her in their lives. “Such as we see them,” they say, “were the patricians, such the people of Venice, after the middle of the eighteenth century. The Venetians might be considered as extinguished; the marvelous city, the pomp only of the Venetians, existed.”
Shall we believe this? Let each choose for himself. At that very time the taste and wealth of a Venetian noble fostered the genius of Canova and then, when their captains starved the ragged331 soldiers of the Republic to feed their own idleness and vice,—when the soldiers dismantled332 her forts to sell the guns to the Turk,—when her sailors rioted on shore and her ships rotted in her ports, she had still military virtue enough to produce that Emo, who beat back the Algerine corsairs from the commerce of Christendom, and attacked them in their stronghold, as of old her galleys333 beat back the Turks. Alas! there was not the virtue in her statesmen to respond to this greatness in the hero. One of their last public acts was to break his heart with insult, and to crave334 peace of the pirates whom he had cowed. It remained for the helpless Doge and the abject patricians, terrified at a threat of war, to declare the Republic at an end, and San Marco was no more.
I love Republics too well to lament the fall of Venice. And yet, Pax tibi, Marce! If I have been slow to praise, I shall not hasten to condemn335, a whole nation. Indeed, so much occurs to me to qualify with contrary sense what I have written concerning Venice, that I wonder if, after all, I have not been treating throughout less of the rule than of the exception. It is a doubt which must force itself upon every fair and temperate336 man who attempts to describe another people’s life and character; and I confess that it troubles me so sorely now, at the end of my work, that I would fain pray the gentle reader to believe much more good and much less evil of the Venetians than I have said. I am glad that it remains for me to express a faith and hope in them for the future, founded upon their present political feeling, which, however tainted337 with self-interest in the case of many, is no doubt with the great majority a high and true feeling of patriotism. And it is impossible to believe that a people which can maintain the stern and unyielding attitude now maintained by the Venetians toward an alien government disposed to make them any concession short of freedom, in order to win them into voluntary submission, can be wanting in the great qualities which distinguish living peoples from those passed hopelessly into history and sentiment. In truth, glancing back over the whole career of the nation, I can discern in it nothing so admirable, so dignified338, so steadfastly339 brave, as its present sacrifice of all that makes life easy and joyous340, to the attainment341 of a good which shall make life noble.
The Venetians desire now, and first of all things, Liberty, knowing that in slavery men can learn no virtues; and I think them fit, with all their errors and defects, to be free now, because men are never fit to be slaves.
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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circumspect
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| adj.慎重的，谨慎的 | |
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license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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inured
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| adj.坚强的，习惯的 | |
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affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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effete
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| adj.无生产力的，虚弱的 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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liars
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| 说谎者( liar的名词复数 ) | |
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upbraid
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| v.斥责，责骂，责备 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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virtuously
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| 合乎道德地，善良地 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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leniently
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| 温和地，仁慈地 | |
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39
impure
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| adj.不纯净的，不洁的；不道德的，下流的 | |
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40
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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41
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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42
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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43
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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44
backbiting
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| 背后诽谤 | |
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45
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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46
meddlesomeness
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47
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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48
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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49
viler
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的比较级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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50
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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51
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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52
rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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53
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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54
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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55
distractions
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| n.使人分心的事[人]( distraction的名词复数 )；娱乐，消遣；心烦意乱；精神错乱 | |
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56
retail
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| v./n.零售；adv.以零售价格 | |
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57
personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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58
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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59
noxious
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| adj.有害的，有毒的；使道德败坏的，讨厌的 | |
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60
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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61
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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62
obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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63
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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64
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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65
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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66
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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67
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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68
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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69
housekeepers
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| n.（女）管家( housekeeper的名词复数 ) | |
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70
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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71
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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72
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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73
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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74
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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75
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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76
erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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77
injustice
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|
| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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78
secluded
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|
| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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79
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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80
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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81
ripen
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| vt.使成熟；vi.成熟 | |
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82
nay
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|
| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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83
revere
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| vt.尊崇，崇敬，敬畏 | |
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84
reveres
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的第三人称单数 ) | |
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85
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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86
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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87
precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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88
offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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89
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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90
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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91
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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92
stinks
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| v.散发出恶臭( stink的第三人称单数 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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93
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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94
clemency
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| n.温和，仁慈，宽厚 | |
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95
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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96
jealousy
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|
| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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97
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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98
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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99
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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100
deride
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| v.嘲弄，愚弄 | |
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101
inflexible
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|
| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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102
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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103
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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104
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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105
restively
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| adv.倔强地，难以驾御地 | |
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106
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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107
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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108
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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109
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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110
afterward
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|
| adv.后来；以后 | |
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111
ordeals
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| n.严峻的考验，苦难的经历( ordeal的名词复数 ) | |
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112
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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113
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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114
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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115
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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116
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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117
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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118
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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119
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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120
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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121
vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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122
sparsity
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| n.稀少 | |
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123
obliquely
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| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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124
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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125
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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126
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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127
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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128
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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129
thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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130
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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131
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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132
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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133
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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134
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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135
patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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136
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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137
oligarchy
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| n.寡头政治 | |
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138
plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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139
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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140
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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141
enervated
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| adj.衰弱的，无力的v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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143
plebeians
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| n.平民( plebeian的名词复数 )；庶民；平民百姓；平庸粗俗的人 | |
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144
laborer
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| n.劳动者，劳工 | |
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145
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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146
participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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147
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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148
patricians
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| n.（古罗马的）统治阶层成员( patrician的名词复数 )；贵族，显贵 | |
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149
restrictions
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|
| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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150
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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151
apothecary
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| n.药剂师 | |
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152
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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153
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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154
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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155
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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156
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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157
pestles
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| n.（捣碎或碾磨用的）杵( pestle的名词复数 ) | |
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158
prescriptions
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| 药( prescription的名词复数 )； 处方； 开处方； 计划 | |
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159
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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160
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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161
ecclesiastic
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| n.教士，基督教会；adj.神职者的，牧师的，教会的 | |
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162
monasteries
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| 修道院( monastery的名词复数 ) | |
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163
miserably
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|
| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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164
stipend
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| n.薪贴；奖学金；养老金 | |
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165
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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166
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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167
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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168
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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169
bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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170
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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171
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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172
forte
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| n.长处，擅长；adj.(音乐)强音的 | |
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173
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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174
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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175
penances
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| n.（赎罪的）苦行，苦修( penance的名词复数 ) | |
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176
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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177
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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178
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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179
burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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180
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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181
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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182
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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183
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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184
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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185
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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186
tractable
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| adj.易驾驭的；温顺的 | |
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187
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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188
ecclesiastics
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| n.神职者，教会，牧师( ecclesiastic的名词复数 ) | |
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189
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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190
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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191
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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192
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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193
jeers
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| n.操纵帆桁下部（使其上下的）索具；嘲讽( jeer的名词复数 )v.嘲笑( jeer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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194
delinquents
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| n.（尤指青少年）有过失的人，违法的人( delinquent的名词复数 ) | |
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195
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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196
flirted
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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197
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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198
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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199
piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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200
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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201
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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202
dominions
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| 统治权( dominion的名词复数 )； 领土； 疆土； 版图 | |
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203
stipulated
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| vt.& vi.规定；约定adj.[法]合同规定的 | |
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204
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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205
functionaries
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| n.公职人员，官员( functionary的名词复数 ) | |
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206
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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207
reclaimed
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| adj.再生的；翻造的；收复的；回收的v.开拓( reclaim的过去式和过去分词 )；要求收回；从废料中回收（有用的材料）；挽救 | |
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208
marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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209
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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210
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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211
riotously
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| adv.骚动地，暴乱地 | |
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212
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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213
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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214
quaintness
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| n.离奇有趣，古怪的事物 | |
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215
induction
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| n.感应，感应现象 | |
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216
statute
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| n.成文法，法令，法规；章程，规则，条例 | |
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217
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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218
tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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219
throngs
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| n.人群( throng的名词复数 )v.成群，挤满( throng的第三人称单数 ) | |
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220
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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221
ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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222
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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223
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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224
deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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225
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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226
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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227
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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228
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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229
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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230
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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231
lesser
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|
| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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232
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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233
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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234
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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235
consorts
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| n.配偶( consort的名词复数 )；（演奏古典音乐的）一组乐师；一组古典乐器；一起v.结伴( consort的第三人称单数 )；交往；相称；调和 | |
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236
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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237
parvenus
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| n.暴富者( parvenu的名词复数 )；暴发户；新贵；傲慢自负的人 | |
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238
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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239
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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240
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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241
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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242
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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243
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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244
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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245
rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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246
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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247
amassed
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| v.积累，积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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248
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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249
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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250
commemorate
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| vt.纪念，庆祝 | |
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251
strutting
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| 加固，支撑物 | |
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252
proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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253
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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254
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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255
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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256
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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257
primness
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| n.循规蹈矩，整洁 | |
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258
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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259
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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260
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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261
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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262
abdicated
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| 放弃（职责、权力等）( abdicate的过去式和过去分词 )； 退位，逊位 | |
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263
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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264
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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265
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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266
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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267
intriguing
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| adj.有趣的；迷人的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的现在分词)；激起…的好奇心 | |
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268
hoops
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| n.箍( hoop的名词复数 )；（篮球）篮圈；（旧时儿童玩的）大环子；（两端埋在地里的）小铁弓 | |
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269
putridity
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| n.腐败 | |
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270
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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271
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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272
barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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273
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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274
harried
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| v.使苦恼( harry的过去式和过去分词 )；不断烦扰；一再袭击；侵扰 | |
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275
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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276
plundered
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| 掠夺，抢劫( plunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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277
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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278
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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279
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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280
gondolas
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| n.狭长小船( gondola的名词复数 )；货架（一般指商店，例如化妆品店）；吊船工作台 | |
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281
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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282
moored
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| adj. 系泊的 动词moor的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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283
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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284
inaccessibility
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| n. 难接近, 难达到, 难达成 | |
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285
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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286
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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287
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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288
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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289
fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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290
turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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291
opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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292
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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293
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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294
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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295
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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296
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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297
nominal
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| adj.名义上的；(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
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298
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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299
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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300
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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301
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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302
carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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303
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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304
memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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305
autobiographer
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| n.自传作者 | |
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306
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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307
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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308
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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309
dependants
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| 受赡养者，受扶养的家属( dependant的名词复数 ) | |
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310
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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311
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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312
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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313
viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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314
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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315
parasites
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| 寄生物( parasite的名词复数 )； 靠他人为生的人； 诸虫 | |
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316
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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317
spicy
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| adj.加香料的；辛辣的，有风味的 | |
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318
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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319
negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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320
sinecure
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| n.闲差事，挂名职务 | |
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321
seducing
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| 诱奸( seduce的现在分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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322
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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323
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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324
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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325
virtuoso
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| n.精于某种艺术或乐器的专家，行家里手 | |
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326
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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327
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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328
lampoons
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| n.讽刺文章或言辞( lampoon的名词复数 )v.冷嘲热讽，奚落( lampoon的第三人称单数 ) | |
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329
scurrilous
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| adj.下流的，恶意诽谤的 | |
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330
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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331
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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332
dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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333
galleys
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| n.平底大船，战舰( galley的名词复数 )；（船上或航空器上的）厨房 | |
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334
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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335
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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336
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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337
tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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338
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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339
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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340
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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341
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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