The last of four years which it was our fortune to live in the city of Venice was passed under the roof of one of her most beautiful and memorable1 palaces, namely, the Palazzo Giustiniani, whither we went, as has been told in an earlier chapter of this book, to escape the encroaching nepotism2 of Giovanna, the flower of serving-women. The experience now, in Cambridge, Mass., refuses to consort3 with ordinary remembrances, and has such a fantastic preference for the company of rather vivid and circumstantial dreams, that it is with no very strong hope of making it seem real that I shall venture to speak of it.
The Giustiniani were a family of patricians4 very famous during the times of a Republic that gave so many splendid names to history, and the race was preserved to the honor and service of Saint Mark by one of the most romantic facts of his annals. During a war with the Greek Emperor in the twelfth century every known Giustiniani was slain6, and the heroic strain seemed lost forever. But the state that mourned them bethought itself of a half forgotten monk7 of their house, who was wasting his life in the Convent of San Nicolò; he was drawn8 forth9 from this seclusion10, and, the permission of Rome being won, he was married to the daughter of the reigning11 doge. From them descended12 the Giustiniani of aftertimes, who still exist; in deed, in the year 1865 there came one day a gentleman of the family, and tried to buy from our landlord that part of the palace which we so humbly13 and insufficiently14 inhabited. It is said that as the unfrocked friar and his wife declined in life they separated, and, as if in doubt of what had been done for the state through them, retired16 each into a convent, Giustiniani going back to San Nicolò, and dying at last to the murmur17 of the Adriatic waves along the Lido’s sands.
Next after this Giustiniani I like best to think of that latest hero of the family, who had the sad fortune to live when the ancient Republic fell at a threat of Napoleon, and who alone among her nobles had the courage to meet with a manly18 spirit the insolent19 menaces of the conqueror20. The Giustiniani governed Treviso for the Senate; he refused, when Napoleon ordered him from his presence, to quit Treviso without the command of the Senate; he flung back the taunts21 of bad faith cast upon the Venetians; and when Napoleon changed his tone from that of disdain22 to one of compliment, and promised that in the general disaster he was preparing for Venice, Giustiniani should be spared, the latter generously replied that he had been a friend of the French only because the Senate was so; as to the immunity23 offered, all was lost to him in the loss of his country, and he should blush for his wealth if it remained intact amidst the ruin of his countrymen.
The family grew in riches and renown24 from age to age, and, some four centuries after the marriage of the monk, they reared the three beautiful Gothic palaces, in the noblest site on the Grand Canal, whence on one hand you can look down to the Rialto Bridge, and on the other far up towards the church of the Salute25, and the Basin of Saint Mark. The architects were those Buoni, father and son, who did some of the most beautiful work on the Ducal Palace, and who wrought26 in an equal inspiration upon these homes of the Giustiniani, building the delicate Gothic arches of the windows, with their slender columns and their graceful27 balconies, and crowning all with the airy battlements.
The largest of the three palaces became later the property of the Foscari family, and here dwelt with his father that unhappy Jacopo Foscari, who after thrice suffering torture by the state for a murder he never did, at last died in exile; hither came the old Doge Foscari, who had consented to this cruel error of the state, and who after a life spent in its service was deposed28 and disgraced before his death; and whither when he lay dead, came remorseful29 Venice, and claimed for sumptuous30 obsequies the dust which his widow yielded with bitter reproaches. Here the family faded away generation by generation, till, (according to the tale told us) early in this century, when the ultimate male survivor31 of the line had died, under a false name, in London, where he had been some sort of obscure actor, there were but two old maiden32 sisters left, who, lapsing33 into imbecility, were shown to strangers by the rascal34 servants as the last of the Foscari; and here in our time was quartered a regiment35 of Austrian troops, whose neatly36 pipe-clayed belts decorated the balconies on which the princely ladies of the house had rested their jewelled arms in other days.
The Foscari added a story to the palace to distinguish it from the two other palaces Giustiniani, but these remain to the present day as they were originally planned. That in which we lived was called Palazzo Giustiniani of the Bishops37, because one of the family was the first patriarch of Venice. After his death he was made a saint by the Pope; and it is related that he was not only a very pious38, but a very good man. In his last hours he admitted his beloved people to his chamber39, where he meekly40 lay upon a pallet of straw, and at the moment he expired, two monks41 in the solitude42 of their cloister43, heard an angelical harmony in the air: the clergy44 performed his obsequies not in black, funereal45 robes, but in white garments, and crowned with laurel, and bearing gilded46 torches, and although the patriarch had died of a malignant47 fever, his body was miraculously48 preserved incorrupt during the sixty-five days that the obsequies lasted. The other branch of the family was called the Giustiniani of the Jewels, from the splendor49 of their dress; but neither palace now shelters any of their magnificent race. The edifice50 on our right was exclusively occupied by a noble Viennese lady, who as we heard,—vaguely, in the right Venetian fashion,—had been a ballet-dancer in her youth, and who now in her matronly days dwelt apart from her husband, the Russian count, and had gondoliers in blue silk, and the finest gondola51 on the Grand Canal, but was a plump, florid lady, looking long past beauty, even as we saw her from our balcony.
Our own palace—as we absurdly grew to call it—was owned and inhabited in a manner much more proper to modern Venice, the proprietorship52 being about equally divided between our own landlord and a very well known Venetian painter, son of a painter still more famous. This artist was a very courteous54 old gentleman, who went with Italian and clock-like regularity55 every evening in summer to a certain caffè, where he seemed to make it a point of conscience to sip56 one sherbet, and to read the “Journal des Débats.” In his coming and going we met him so often that we became friends, and he asked us many times to visit him, and see his father’s pictures, and some famous frescos with which his part of the palace was adorned57. It was a characteristic trait of our life, that though we constantly meant to avail ourselves of this kindness, we never did so. But we continued in the enjoyment58 of the beautiful garden, which this gentleman owned at the rear of the palace and on which our chamber windows looked. It was full of oleanders and roses, and other bright and odorous blooms, which we could enjoy perfectly59 well without knowing their names; and I could hardly say whether the garden was more charming when it was in its summer glory, or when, on some rare winter day, a breath from the mountains had clothed its tender boughs60 and sprays with a light and evanescent flowering of snow. At any season the lofty palace walls rose over it, and shut it in a pensive61 seclusion which was loved by the old mother of the painter and by his elderly maiden sister. These often walked on its moss-grown paths, silent as the roses and oleanders to which one could have fancied the blossom of their youth had flown; and sometimes there came to them there, grave, black-gowned priests,—for the painter’s was a devout62 family,—and talked with them in tones almost as tranquil63 as the silence was, save when one of the ecclesiastics64 placidly65 took snuff,—it is a dogma of the Church for priests to take snuff in Italy,—and thereafter, upon a prolonged search for his handkerchief, blew a resounding66 nose. So far as we knew, the garden walls circumscribed67 the whole life of these ladies; and I am afraid that such topics of this world as they touched upon with their priests must have been deplorably small.
Their kinsman68 owned part of the story under us, and both of the stories above us; he had the advantage of the garden over our landlord; but he had not so grand a gondola-gate as we, and in some other respects I incline to think that our part of the edifice was the finer. It is certain that no mention is made of any such beautiful hall in the property of the painter as is noted69 in that of our landlord, by the historian of a “Hundred Palaces of Venice,”—a work for which I subscribed70, and then for my merit was honored by a visit from the author, who read aloud to me in a deep and sonorous71 voice the annals of our temporary home. This hall occupied half the space of the whole floor; but it was altogether surrounded by rooms of various shapes and sizes, except upon one side of its length, where it gave through Gothic windows of vari-colored glass, upon a small court below,—a green-mouldy little court, further dampened by a cistern72, which had the usual curb73 of a single carven block of marble. The roof of this stately sala was traversed by a long series of painted rafters, which in the halls of nearly all Venetian palaces are left exposed, and painted or carved and gilded. A suite74 of stately rooms closed the hall from the Grand Canal, and one of these formed our parlor75; on the side opposite the Gothic windows was a vast aristocratic kitchen, which, with its rows of shining coppers76, its great chimney-place well advanced toward the middle of the floor, and its tall gloomy windows, still affects my imagination as one of the most patrician5 rooms which I ever saw; at the back of the hall were those chambers77 of ours overlooking the garden of which I have already spoken, and another kitchen, less noble than the first, but still sufficiently15 grandiose79 to make most New World kitchens seem very meekly minute and unimpressive. Between the two kitchens was another court, with another cistern, from which the painter’s family drew water with a bucket on a long rope, which, when let down from the fourth story, appeared to be dropped from the clouds, and descended with a noise little less alarming than thunder.
Altogether the most surprising object in the great sala was a sewing-machine, and we should have been inconsolably outraged80 by its presence there, amid so much that was merely venerable and beautiful, but for the fact that it was in a state of harmonious82 and hopeless disrepair, and, from its general contrivance, gave us the idea that it had never been of any use. It was, in fact, kept as a sort of curiosity by the landlord, who exhibited it to the admiration83 of his Venetian friends.
The reader will doubtless have imagined, from what I have been saying, that the Palazzo Giustiniani had not all that machinery84 which we know in our houses here as modern improvements. It had nothing of the kind, and life there was, as in most houses in Italy, a kind of permanent camping out. When I remember the small amount of carpeting, of furniture, and of upholstery we enjoyed, it appears to me pathetic; and yet, I am not sure that it was not the wisest way to live. I know that we had compensation in things not purchasable here for money. If the furniture of the principal bedroom was somewhat scanty85, its dimensions were unstinted the ceiling was fifteen feet high, and was divided into rich and heavy panels, adorned each with a mighty86 rosette of carved and gilded wood, two feet across. The parlor had not its original decorations in our time, but it had once had so noble a carved ceiling that it was found worth while to take it down and sell it into England; and it still had two grand Venetian mirrors, a vast and very good painting of a miracle of St. Anthony, and imitation-antique tables and arm-chairs. The last were frolicked all over with carven nymphs and cupids; but they were of such frail87 construction that they were not meant to be sat in, much less to be removed from the wall against which they stood; and more than one of our American visitors was dismayed at having these proud articles of furniture go to pieces upon his attempt to use them like mere81 arm-chairs of ordinary life. Scarcely less impressive or useless than these was a monumental plaster-stove, surmounted88 by a bust89 of ?sculapius; when this was broken by accident, we cheaply repaired the loss with a bust of Homer (the dealer90 in the next campo being out of ?sculapiuses) which no one could have told from the bust it replaced; and this and the other artistic91 glories of the room made us quite forget all possible blemishes92 and defects. And will the reader mention any house with modern improvements in America which has also windows, with pointed93 arches of marble, opening upon balconies that overhang the Grand Canal?
For our new apartment, which consisted of six rooms, furnished with every article necessary for Venetian housekeeping, we paid one dollar a day which, in the innocence94 of our hearts we thought rather dear, though we were somewhat consoled by reflecting that this extravagant95 outlay96 secured us the finest position on the Grand Canal. We did not mean to keep house as we had in Casa Falier, and perhaps a sketch97 of our easier ménage may not be out of place. Breakfast was prepared in the house, for in that blessed climate all you care for in the morning is a cup of coffee, with a little bread and butter, a musk-melon, and some clusters of white grapes, more or less. Then we had our dinners sent in warm from a cook’s who had learned his noble art in France; he furnished a dinner of five courses for three persons at a cost of about eighty cents; and they were dinners so happily conceived and so justly executed, that I cannot accuse myself of an excess of sentiment when I confess that I sigh for them to this day. Then as for our immaterial tea, we always took that at the Caffè Florian in the Piazza98 of Saint Mark, where we drank a cup of black coffee and ate an ice, while all the world promenaded99 by, and the Austrian bands made heavenly music.
Those bands no longer play in Venice, and I believe that they are not the only charm which she has lost in exchanging Austrian servitude for Italian freedom; though I should be sorry to think that freedom was not worth all other charms. The poor Venetians used to be very rigorous (as I have elsewhere related), about the music of their oppressors, and would not come into the Piazza until it had ceased and the Austrian promenaders had disappeared, when they sat down at Florian’s, and listened to such bands of strolling singers and minstrels as chose to give them a concord100 of sweet sounds, without foreign admixture. We, in our neutrality, were wont101 to sit out both entertainments, and then go home well toward midnight, through the sleepy little streets, and over the bridges that spanned the narrow canals, dreaming in the shadows of the palaces.
We moved with half-conscious steps till we came to the silver expanse of the Grand Canal, where, at the ferry, darkled a little brood of black gondolas102, into one of which we got, and were rowed noiselessly to the thither103 side, where we took our way toward the land-gate of our palace through the narrow streets of the parish of San Barnabà, and the campo before the ugly fa?ade of the church; or else we were rowed directly to the water-gate, where we got out on the steps worn by the feet of the Giustiniani of old, and wandered upward through the darkness of the stairway, which gave them a far different welcome of servants and lights when they returned from an evening’s pleasure in the Piazza. It seemed scarcely just; but then, those Giustiniani were dead, and we were alive, and that was one advantage; and, besides, the loneliness and desolation of the palace had a peculiar104 charm, and were at any rate cheaper than its former splendor could have been. I am afraid that people who live abroad in the palaces of extinct nobles do not keep this important fact sufficiently in mind; and as the Palazzo Giustiniani is still let in furnished lodgings105, and it is quite possible that some of my readers may be going to spend next summer in it, I venture to remind them that if they have to draw somewhat upon their fancy for patrician accommodations there, it will cost them far less in money than it did the original proprietors53, who contributed to our selfish pleasure by the very thought of their romantic absence and picturesque106 decay. In fact, the Past is everywhere like the cake of proverb: you cannot enjoy it and have it.
And here I am reminded of another pleasure of modern dwellers107 in Venetian palaces, which could hardly have been indulged by the patricians of old, and which is hardly imaginable by people of this day, whose front doors open upon dry land: I mean to say the privilege of sea-bathing from one’s own threshold. From the beginning of June till far into September all the canals of Venice are populated by the amphibious boys, who clamor about in the brine, or poise108 themselves for a leap from the tops of bridges, or show their fine, statuesque figures, bronzed by the ardent109 sun, against the fa?ades of empty palaces, where they hover110 among the marble sculptures, and meditate111 a headlong plunge112. It is only the Venetian ladies, in fact, who do not share this healthful amusement. Fathers of families, like so many plump, domestic drakes, lead forth their aquatic113 broods, teaching the little ones to swim by the aid of various floats, and delighting in the gambols114 of the larger ducklings. When the tide comes in fresh and strong from the sea the water in the Grand Canal is pure and refreshing115; and at these times it is a singular pleasure to leap from one’s door-step into the swift current, and spend a half-hour, very informally, among one’s neighbors there. The Venetian bathing-dress is a mere sketch of the pantaloons of ordinary life; and when I used to stand upon our balcony, and see some bearded head ducking me a polite salutation from a pair of broad, brown shoulders that showed above the water, I was not always able to recognize my acquaintance, deprived of his factitious identity of clothes. But I always knew a certain stately consul-general by a vast expanse of baldness upon the top of his head; and it must be owned, I think, that this form of social assembly was, with all its disadvantages, a novel and vivacious116 spectacle. The Venetian ladies, when they bathed, went to the Lido, or else to the bath-houses in front of the Ducal Palace, where they saturated117 themselves a good part of the day, and drank coffee, and, possibly, gossiped.
I think that our balconies at Palazzo Giustiniani were even better places to see the life of the Grand Canal from than the balcony of Casa Falier, which we had just left. Here at least we had a greater stretch of the Canal, looking, as we could, up either side of its angle. Here, too, we had more gondola stations in sight, and as we were nearer the Rialto, there was more picturesque passing of the market-boats. But if we saw more of this life, we did not see it in greater variety, for I think we had already exhausted118 this. There was a movement all night long. If I woke at three or four o’clock, and offered myself the novel spectacle of the Canal at that hour, I saw the heavy-laden barges119 go by to the Rialto, with now and then also a good-sized coasting schooner120 making lazily for the lagoons121, with its ruddy fire already kindled122 for cooking the morning’s meal, and looking very enviably cosey. After our own breakfast we began to watch for the gondolas of the tourists of different nations, whom we came to distinguish at a glance. Then the boats of the various artisans went by, the carpenter’s, the mason’s, the plasterer’s, with those that sold fuel, and vegetables, and fruit, and fish, to any household that arrested them. From noon till three or four o’clock the Canal was comparatively deserted123; but before twilight124 it was thronged125 again by people riding out in their open gondolas to take the air after the day’s fervor126. After nightfall they ceased, till only at long intervals127 a solitary128 lamp, stealing over the dark surface, gave token of the movement of some gondola bent129 upon an errand that could not fail to seem mysterious or fail to be matter of fact. We never wearied of this oft-repeated variety, nor of our balcony in any way; and when the moon shone in through the lovely arched window and sketched130 its exquisite131 outline on the floor, we were as happy as moonshine could make us.
Were we otherwise content? As concerns Venice, it is very hard to say, and I do not know that I shall ever be able to say with certainty. For all the entertainment it afforded us, it was a very lonely life, and we felt the sadness of the city in many fine and not instantly recognizable ways. Englishmen who lived there bade us beware of spending the whole year in Venice, which they declared apt to result in a morbid132 depression of the spirits. I believe they attributed this to the air of the place, but I think it was more than half owing to her mood, to her old, ghostly, aimless life. She was, indeed, a phantom133 of the past, haunting our modern world,—serene134, inexpressibly beautiful, yet inscrutably and unspeakably sad. Remembering the charm that was in her, we often sigh for the renewal135 of our own vague life there,—a shadow within the shadow; but remembering also her deep melancholy136, an involuntary shiver creeps over us, and we are glad not to be there. Perhaps some of you who have spent a summer day or a summer week in Venice do not recognize this feeling; but if you will remain there, not four years as we did, but a year or six months even, it will ever afterwards be only too plain. All changes, all events, were affected137 by the inevitable138 local melancholy; the day was as pensive amidst that populous139 silence as the night; the winter not more pathetic than the long, tranquil, lovely summer. We rarely sentimentalized consciously, and still more seldom openly, about the present state of Venice as contrasted with her past glory.
I am glad to say that we despised the conventional poetastery about her; but I believe that we had so far lived into sympathy with her, that, whether we realized it or not, we took the tone of her dispiritedness, and assumed a part of the common experience of loss and of hopelessness. History, if you live where it was created, is a far subtler influence than you suspect; and I would not say how much Venetian history, amidst the monuments of her glory and the witnesses of her fall, had to do in secret and tacit ways with the prevailing140 sentiment of existence, which I now distinctly recognize to have been a melancholy one. No doubt this sentiment was deepened by every freshly added association with memorable places; and each fact, each great name and career, each strange tradition as it rose out of the past for us and shed its pale lustre141 upon the present, touched us with a pathos142 which we could neither trace nor analyze143.
I do not know how much the modern Venetians had to do with this impression, but something I have no question. They were then under Austrian rule; and in spite of much that was puerile144 and theatrical145 in it, there was something very affecting in their attitude of what may best be described as passive defiance146. This alone made them heroic, but it also made them tedious. They rarely talked of anything but politics; and as I have elsewhere said, they were very jealous to have every one declare himself of their opinion. Hemmed147 in by this jealousy148 on one side, and by a heavy and rebellious149 sense of the wrongful presence of the Austrian troops and the Austrian spies on the other, we forever felt dimly constrained150 by something, we could not say precisely151 what, and we only knew what, when we went sometimes on a journey into free Italy, and threw off the irksome caution we had maintained both as to patriotic152 and alien tyrants153. This political misery154 circumscribed our acquaintance very much, and reduced the circle of our friendship to three or four families, who were content to know our sympathies without exacting155 constant expression of them. So we learned to depend mainly upon passing Americans for our society; we hailed with rapture156 the arrival of a gondola distinguished157 by the easy hats of our countrymen and the pretty faces and pretty dresses of our countrywomen. It was in the days of our war; and talking together over its events, we felt a brotherhood158 with every other American.
Of course, in these circumstances, we made thorough acquaintance with the people about us in the palace. The landlord had come somehow into a profitable knowledge of Anglo-Saxon foibles and susceptibilities; but his lodgings were charming, and I recognize the principle that it is not for literature to make its prey159 of any possibly conscious object. For this reason, I am likewise mostly silent concerning a certain attaché of the palace, the right-hand man and intimate associate of the landlord. He was the descendant of one of the most ancient and noble families of Italy,—a family of popes and cardinals160, of princes and ministers, which in him was diminished and tarnished161 in an almost inexplicable162 degree. He was not at all worldly-wise, but he was a man of great learning, and of a capacity for acquiring knowledge that I have never seen surpassed. He possessed163, I think, not many shirts on earth; but he spoke78 three or four languages, and wrote very pretty sonnets164 in Italian and German. He was one of the friendliest and willingest souls living, and as generous as utter destitution165 can make a man; yet he had a proper spirit, and valued himself upon his name. Sometimes he brought his great-grandfather to the palace; a brisk old gentleman in his nineties, who had seen the fall of the Republic and three other revolutions in Venice, but had contrived166 to keep a government pension through all, and now smiled with unabated cheerfulness upon a world which he seemed likely never to leave.
The palace-servants were two, the gondolier and a sort of housekeeper,—a handsome, swarthy woman, with beautiful white teeth and liquid black eyes. She was the mother of a pretty little boy, who was going to bring himself up for a priest, and whose chief amusement was saying mimic167 masses to an imaginary congregation. She was perfectly statuesque and obliging, and we had no right, as lovers of the beautiful or as lodgers168, to complain of her, whatever her faults might have been. As to the gondolier, who was a very important personage in our palatial169 household, he was a handsome bashful, well-mannered fellow, with a good-natured blue eye and a neatly waxed mustache. He had been ten years a soldier in the Austrian army, and was, from his own account and from all I saw of him, one of the least courageous170 men in the world; but then no part of the Austrian system tends to make men brave, and I could easily imagine that before it had done with one it might give him reasons enough to be timid all the rest of his life. Piero had not very much to do, and he spent the greater part of his leisure in a sort of lazy flirtation171 with the women about the kitchen-fire, or in the gondola, in which he sometimes gave them the air. We always liked him; I should have trusted him in any sort of way, except one that involved danger. It once happened that burglars attempted to enter our rooms, and Piero declared to us that he knew the men; but before the police, he swore that he knew nothing about them. Afterwards he returned privately172 to his first assertion, and accounted for his conduct by saying that if he had borne witness against the burglars, he was afraid that their friends would jump on his back (saltarmi adosso), as he phrased it, in the dark; for by this sort of terrorism the poor and the wicked have long been bound together in Italy. Piero was a humorist in his dry way, and made a jest of his own caution; but his favorite joke was, when he dressed himself with particular care, to tell the women that he was going to pay a visit to the Princess Clary, then the star of Austrian society. This mild pleasantry was repeated indefinitely with never-failing effect.
More interesting to us than all the rest was our own servant, Bettina, who came to us from a village on the mainland. She was very dark, so dark and so Southern in appearance as almost to verge173 upon the negro type; yet she bore the English-sounding name of Scarbro, and how she ever came by it remains174 a puzzle to this day, for she was one of the most pure and entire of Italians. I mean this was her maiden name; she was married to a trumpeter in the Austrian service, whose Bohemian name she was unable to pronounce, and consequently never gave us. She was a woman of very few ideas indeed, but perfectly honest and good-hearted. She was pious, in her peasant fashion, and in her walks about the city did not fail to bless the baby before every picture of the Madonna. She provided it with an engraved175 portrait of that Holy Nail which was venerated176 in the neighboring church of San Pantaleon; and she apparently177 aimed to supply it with playthings of a religious and saving character like that piece of ivory, which resembled a small torso, and which Bettina described as “A bit of the Lord, Signor,”—and it was, in fact, a fragment of an ivory crucifix, which she had somewhere picked up. To Bettina’s mind, mankind broadly divided themselves into two races, Italians and Germans, to which latter she held that we Americans in some sort belonged. She believed that America lay a little to the south of Vienna and in her heart I think she was persuaded that the real national complexion178 was black, and that the innumerable white Americans she saw at our house were merely a multitude of exceptions. But with all her ignorance, she had no superstitions179 of a gloomy kind: the only ghost she seemed ever to have heard of was the spectre of an American ship captain which a friend of Piero’s had seen at the Lido. She was perfectly kind and obedient, and was deeply attached in an inarticulate way to the baby, which was indeed the pet of the whole palace. This young lady ruled arbitrarily over them all, and was forever being kissed and adored. When Piero went out to the wine-shop for a little temperate180 dissipation, he took her with him on his shoulder, and exhibited her to the admiring gondoliers of his acquaintance; there was no puppetshow, no church festival, in that region to which she was not carried; and when Bettina, and Giulia, and all the idle women of the neighborhood assembled on a Saturday afternoon in the narrow alley181 behind the palace (where they dressed one another’s thick black hair in fine braids soaked in milk, and built it up to last the whole of the next week), the baby was the cynosure182 of all hearts and eyes. But her supremacy183 was yet more distinguished when, late at night, the household gave itself a feast of snails184 stewed185 in oil and garlic, in the vast kitchen. There her anxious parents have found her seated in the middle of the table with the bowl of snails before her, and armed with a great spoon, while her vassals186 sat round, and grinned their fondness and delight in her small tyrannies; and the immense room, dimly lit, with the mystical implements187 of cookery glimmering188 from the wall, showed like some witch’s cavern190, where a particularly small sorceress was presiding over the concoction191 of an evil potion or the weaving of a powerful spell.
From time to time we had fellow-lodgers, who were always more or less interesting and mysterious. Among the rest there was once a French lady, who languished192, during her stay, under the disfavor of the police, and for whose sake there was a sentinel with a fixed193 bayonet stationed day and night at the palace gate. At last, one night, this French lady escaped by a rope-ladder from her chamber window, and thus no doubt satisfied alike the female instinct for intrigue194 and elopement and the political agitator’s love of a mysterious disappearance195. It was understood dimly that she was an author, and had written a book displeasing196 to the police.
Then there was the German baroness197 and her son and daughter, the last very beautiful and much courted by handsome Austrian officers; the son rather weak-minded, and a great care to his sister and mother, from his propensity198 to fall in love and marry below his station; the mother very red-faced and fat, a good-natured old creature who gambled the summer months away at Hombourg and Baden and in the winter resorted to Venice to make a match for her pretty daughter. Then, moreover, there was that English family, between whom and ourselves there was the reluctance199 and antipathy200, personal and national, which exists between all right-minded Englishmen and Americans. No Italian can understand this just and natural condition, and it was the constant aim of our landlord to make us acquainted. So one day when he found a member of each of these unfriendly families on the neutral ground of the grand sala, he introduced them. They had, happily, the piano-forte between them, and I flatter myself that the insulting coldness and indifference201 with which they received each other’s names carried to our landlord’s bosom202 a dismay never before felt by a good-natured and well-meaning man.
The piano-forte which I have mentioned belonged to the landlord, who was fond of music and of all fine and beautiful things; and now and then he gave a musical soirée, which was attended, more or less surreptitiously, by the young people of his acquaintance. I do not think he was always quite candid203 in giving his invitations, for on one occasion a certain count, who had taken refuge from the glare of the sala in our parlor for the purpose of concealing204 the very loud-plaided pantaloons he wore, explained pathetically that he had no idea it was a party, and that he had been so long out of society, for patriotic reasons, that he had no longer a dress suit. But to us they were very delightful205 entertainments, no less from the great variety of character they afforded than from the really charming and excellent music which the different amateurs made; for we had airs from all the famous operas, and the instrumentation was by a gifted young composer. Besides, the gayety seemed to recall in some degree the old, brilliant life of the palace, and at least showed us how well it was adapted to social magnificence and display.
We enjoyed our whole year in Palazzo Giustiniani, though some of the days were too long and some too short, as everywhere. From heat we hardly suffered at all, so perfectly did the vast and lofty rooms answer to the purpose of their builders in this respect. A current of sea air drew through to the painter’s garden by day; and by night there was scarcely a mosquito of the myriads206 that infested207 some parts of Venice. In winter it was not so well. Then we shuffled208 about in wadded gowns and boots lined with sheep-skin,—the woolly side in, as in the song. The passage of the sala, was something to be dreaded209, and we shivered as fleetly through it as we could, and were all the colder for the deceitful warmth of the colors which the sun cast upon the stone floor from the window opening on the court.
I do not remember any one event of our life more exciting than that attempted burglary of which I have spoken. In a city where the police gave their best attention to political offenders210, there were naturally a great many rogues211, and the Venetian rogues, if not distinguished for the more heroic crimes, were very skillful in what I may call the genre212 branch of robbing rooms through open windows, and committing all kinds of safe domestic depredations213. It was judged best to acquaint Justice (as they call law in Latin countries) with the attempt upon our property, and I found her officers housed in a small room of the Doge’s Palace, clerkly men in velvet214 skull-caps, driving loath215 quills216 over the rough official paper of those regions. After an exchange of diplomatic courtesies, the commissary took my statement of the affair down in writing, pertinent217 to which were my father’s name, place, and business, with a full and satisfactory personal history of myself down to the period of the attempted burglary. This, I said, occurred one morning about daylight, when I saw the head of the burglar peering above the window-sill, and the hand of the burglar extended to prey upon my wardrobe.
“Excuse me, Signor Console,” interrupted the commissary, “how could you see him?”
“Why, there was nothing in the world to prevent me. The window was open.”
“The window was open!” gasped218 the commissary. “Do you mean that you sleep with your windows open?”
“Most certainly!”
“Pardon!” said the commissary, suspiciously. “Do all Americans sleep with their windows open?”
“I may venture to say that they all do, in summer,” I answered; “at least, it’s the general custom.”
Such a thing as this indulgence in fresh air seemed altogether foreign to the commissary’s experience; and but for my official dignity, I am sure that I should have been effectually browbeaten219 by him. As it was, he threw himself back in his armchair and stared at me fixedly220 for some moments. Then he recovered himself with another “Per-doni!” and, turning to his clerk, said, “Write down that, according to the American custom, they were sleeping with their windows open.” But I know that the commissary, for all his politeness, considered this habit a relic221 of the times when we Americans all abode222 in wigwams; and I suppose it paralyzed his energies in the effort to bring the burglars to justice, for I have never heard anything of them from that day to this.
The truth is, it was a very uneventful year; and I am the better satisfied with it as an average Venetian year on that account. We sometimes varied223 the pensive monotony by a short visit to the cities of the mainland; but we always came back to it willingly, and I think we unconsciously abhorred224 any interruption of it. The days, as they followed each other, were wonderfully alike, in every respect. For eight months of summer they were alike in their clear-skied, sweet-breathed loveliness; in the autumn, there where the melancholy of the falling leaf could not spread its contagion225 to the sculptured foliage226 of Gothic art, the days were alike in their sentiment of tranquil oblivion and resignation which was as autumnal as any aspect of woods or fields could have been; in the winter they were alike in their dreariness227 and discomfort228. As I remember, we spent by far the greater part of our time in going to the Piazza, and we were devoted229 Florianisti, as the Italians call those that lounge habitually230 at the Caffè Florian. We went every evening to the Piazza as a matter of course; if the morning was long, we went to the Piazza; if we did not know what to do with the afternoon, we went to the Piazza; if we had friends with us, we went to the Piazza; if we were alone, we went to the Piazza; and there was no mood or circumstances in which it did not seem a natural and fitting thing to go to the Piazza. There were all the prettiest shops; there were all the finest caffès; there was the incomparable Church of St. Mark; there was the whole world of Venice.
Of course, we had other devices besides going to the Piazza; and sometimes we spent entire weeks in visiting the churches, one after another, and studying their artistic treasures, down to the smallest scrap231 of an old master in their darkest chapel232; their history, their storied tombs, their fictitious233 associations. Very few churches escaped, I believe, except such as had been turned into barracks, and were guarded by an incorruptible Austrian sentinel. For such churches as did escape, we have a kind of envious234 longing235 to this day, and should find it hard to like anybody who had succeeded better in visiting them. There is, for example, the church of San Giobbe, the doors of which we haunted with more patience than that of the titulary saint: now the sacristan was out; now the church was shut up for repairs; now it was Holy Week and the pictures were veiled; we had to leave Venice at last without a sight of San Giobbe’s three Saints by Bordone, and Madonna by Bellini, which, unseen, outvalue all the other Saints and Madonnas that we looked at; and I am sure that life can never become so aimless, but we shall still have the desire of some day going to see the church of San Giobbe. If we read some famous episode of Venetian history, we made it the immediate236 care of our lives to visit the scene of its occurrence; if Ruskin told us of some recondite237 beauty of sculpture hid away in some unthought-of palace court, we invaded that palace at once; if in entirely238 purposeless strolls through the city, we came upon anything that touched the fancy or piqued239 curiosity, there was no gate or bar proof against our bribes240. What strange old nests of ruin, what marvellous homes of solitude and dilapidation241, did we not wander into! What boarded-up windows peer through, what gloomy recesses243 penetrate244! I have lumber245 enough in my memory stored from such rambles246 to load the nightmares of a generation, and stuff for the dreams of a whole people. Does any gentleman or lady wish to write a romance? Sir or madam, I know just the mouldy and sunless alley for your villain247 to stalk his victim in, the canal in which to plunge his body, the staircase and the hall for the subsequent wanderings of his ghost; and all these scenes and localities I will sell at half the cost price; as also, balconies for flirtation, gondolas for intrigue and elopement, confessionals for the betrayal of guilty secrets. I have an assortment248 of bad and beautiful faces and picturesque attitudes and effective tones of voice; and a large stock of sympathetic sculptures and furniture and dresses, with other articles too numerous to mention, all warranted Venetian, and suitable to every style of romance. Who bids? Nay249, I cannot sell, nor you buy. Each memory, as I hold it up for inspection250, loses its subtle beauty and value, and turns common and poor in my hawker’s fingers.
Yet I must needs try to fix here the remembrance of two or three palaces, of which our fancy took the fondest hold, and to which it yet most fondly clings. It cannot locate them all, and least of all can it place that vast old palace, somewhere near Cannaregio, which faced upon a campo, with lofty windows blinded by rough boards, and empty from top to bottom. It was of the later Renaissance251 in style, and we imagined it built in the Republic’s declining years by some ruinous noble, whose extravagance forbade his posterity252 to live in it, for it had that peculiarly forlorn air which belongs to a thing decayed without being worn out. We entered its coolness and dampness, and wandered up the wide marble staircase, past the vacant niches253 of departed statuary, and came on the third floor to a grand portal which was closed against us by a barrier of lumber. But this could not hinder us from looking within, and we were aware that we stood upon the threshold of our ruinous noble’s great banqueting-hall, where he used to give his magnificent feste da ballo. Lustrissimo was long gone with all his guests; but there in the roof were the amazing frescos of Tiepolo’s school, which had smiled down on them, as now they smiled on us, great piles of architecture, airy tops of palaces, swimming in summer sky, and wantoned over by a joyous254 populace of divinities of the lovelier sex that had nothing but their loveliness to clothe them and keep them afloat; the whole grandiose and superb beyond the effect of words, and luminous255 with delicious color. How it all rioted there with its inextinguishable beauty in the solitude and silence, from day to day, from year to year, while men died, and systems passed, and nothing remained unchanged but the instincts of youth and love that inspired it! It was music and wine and wit; it was so warm and glowing that it made the sunlight cold; and it seemed ever after a secret of gladness and beauty that the sad old palace was keeping in its heart against the time to which Venice looks forward when her splendor and opulence256 shall be indestructibly renewed.
There is a ball-room in the Palazzo Pisani, which some of my readers may have passed through on their way to the studio of the charming old Prussian painter, Nerl?; the frescos of this are dim and faded and dusty, and impress you with a sense of irreparable decay, but the noble proportions and the princely air of the place are inalienable, while the palace stands. Here might have danced that Contarini who, when his wife’s necklace of pearls fell upon the floor in the way of her partner, the King of Denmark, advanced and ground it into powder with his foot that the king might not be troubled to avoid treading on it; and here, doubtless, many a gorgeous masquerade had been in the long Venetian carnival257; and what passion and intrigue and jealousy, who knows? Now the palace was let in apartments, and was otherwise a barrack, and in the great court, steadfast258 as any of the marble statues, stood the Austrian sentinel. One of the statues was a figure veiled from head to foot, at the base of which it was hard not to imagine lovers, masked and hooded259, and forever hurriedly whispering their secrets in the shadow cast in perpetual moonlight.
Yet another ball-room in yet another palace opens to memory, but this is all bright and fresh with recent decoration. In the blue vaulted260 roof shine stars of gold; the walls are gay with dainty frescos; a gallery encircles the whole, and from this drops a light stairway, slim-railed, and guarded at the foot by torch-bearing statues of swarthy Eastern girls; through the glass doors at the other side glimmers261 the green and red of a garden. It was a place to be young in, to dance in, dream in, make love in; but it was no more a surprise than the whole palace to which it belonged, and which there in that tattered262 and poverty-stricken old Venice was a vision of untarnished splendor and prosperous fortune. It was richly furnished throughout all its vast extent, adorned with every caprice and delight of art, and appointed with every modern comfort The foot was hushed by costly263 carpets, the eye was flattered by a thousand beauties and prettinesses. In the grates the fires were laid and ready to be lighted; the candles stood upon the mantles264; the toilet-linen265 was arranged for instant use in the luxurious266 chambers; but from basement to roof the palace was a solitude; no guest came there, no one dwelt there save the custodian267; the eccentric lady of whose possessions it formed a part abode in a little house behind the palace, and on her door-plate had written her vanitas vanitatum in the sarcastic268 inscription269, “John Humdrum270, Esquire.”
Of course she was Inglese; and that other lady, who was selling off the furniture of her palace, and was so amiable271 a guide to its wonders in her curious broken English, was Hungarian. Her great pride and joy, amidst the objects of vertu and the works of art, was a set of “Punch,” which she made us admire, and which she prized the more because she had always been allowed to receive it when the government prohibited it to everybody else. But we were Americans, she said; and had we ever seen this book? She held up the “The Potiphar Papers,” a volume which must have been inexpressibly amused and bewildered to find itself there, in that curious little old lady’s hand.
Shall I go on and tell of the palace in which our strange friend Padre L——— dwelt, and the rooms of which he had filled up with the fruits of his passion for the arts and sciences; the anteroom he had frescoed272 to represent a grape-arbor with a multitude of clusters overhead; the parlor with his oil-paintings on the walls, and the piano and melodeon arranged so that Padre L——— could play upon them both at once; the oratory273 turned forge, and harboring the most alchemic-looking apparatus274 of all kinds; the other rooms in which he had stored his inventions in portable furniture, steam-propulsion, rifled cannon275, and perpetual motion; the attic276 with the camera by which one could photograph one’s self,—shall I tell of this, and yet other palaces? I think there is enough already; and I have begun to doubt somewhat the truth of my reminiscences, as I advise the reader to do.
Besides, I feel that the words fail to give all the truth that is in them; and if I cannot make them serve my purpose as to the palaces, how should I hope to impart through them my sense of the glory and loveliness of Venetian art? I could not give the imagination and the power of Tintoretto as we felt it, nor the serene beauty, the gracious luxury of Titian, nor the opulence, the worldly magnificence of Paolo Veronese. There hang their mighty works forever, high above the reach of any palaverer; they smile their stately welcome from the altars and palace-walls, upon whoever approaches them in the sincerity277 and love of beauty that produced them; and thither you must thus go if you would know them. Like fragments of dreams, like the fleeting278
“Images of glimmering dawn,”
I am from time to time aware, amid the work-day world, of some happiness from them, some face or form, some drift of a princely robe or ethereal drapery, some august shape of painted architecture, some un-namable delight of color; but to describe them more strictly279 and explicitly280, how should I undertake?
There was the exhaustion281 following every form of intense pleasure, in their contemplation, such a wear of vision and thought, that I could not call the life we led in looking at them an idle one, even if it had no result in after times; so I will not say that it was to severer occupation our minds turned more and more in our growing desire to return home. For my own part personally I felt keenly the fictitious and transitory character of official life. I knew that if I had become fit to serve the government by four years’ residence in Venice, that was a good reason why the government, according to our admirable system, should dismiss me, and send some perfectly unqualified person to take my place; and in my heart also I knew that there was almost nothing for me to do where I was, and I dreaded the easily formed habit of receiving, a salary for no service performed. I reminded myself that, soon or late, I must go back to the old fashion of earning money, and that it had better be sooner than later. Therefore, though for some reasons it was the saddest and strangest thing in the world to do, I was on the whole rejoiced when a leave of absence came, and we prepared to quit Venice.
Never had the city seemed so dream-like and unreal as in this light of farewell,—this tearful glimmer189 which our love and regret cast upon it. As in a maze282, we haunted once more and for the last time the scenes we had known so long, and spent our final, phantasmal evening in the Piazza; looked, through the moonlight, our mute adieu to islands and lagoons, to church and tower; and then returned to our own palace, and stood long upon the balconies that overhung the Grand Canal. There the future became as incredible and improbable as the past; and if we had often felt the incongruity283 of our coming to live in such a place, now, with tenfold force, we felt the cruel absurdity284 of proposing to live anywhere else. We had become part of Venice; and how could such atoms of her fantastic personality ever mingle285 with the alien and unsympathetic world?
The next morning the whole palace household bestirred itself to accompany us to the station: the landlord in his best hat and coat, our noble friend in phenomenal linen, Giulia and her little boy, Bettina shedding bitter tears over the baby, and Piero, sad but firm, bending over the oar242 and driving us swiftly forward. The first turn of the Canal shut the Palazzo Giustiniani from our lingering gaze, a few more curves and windings286 brought us to the station. The tickets were bought, the baggage was registered; the little oddly assorted287 company drew itself up in a line, and received with tears our husky adieux. I feared there might be a remote purpose in the hearts of the landlord and his retainer to embrace and kiss me, after the Italian manner, but if there was, by a final inspiration they spared me the ordeal288. Piero turned away to his gondola; the two other men moved aside; Bettina gave one long, hungering, devouring289 hug to the baby; and as we hurried into the waiting-room, we saw her, as upon a stage, standing290 without the barrier, supported and sobbing291 in the arms of Giulia.
It was well to be gone, but I cannot say we were glad to be going.
The End
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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nepotism
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| n.任人唯亲；裙带关系 | |
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consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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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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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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slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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insufficiently
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| adv.不够地，不能胜任地 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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immunity
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| n.优惠；免除；豁免，豁免权 | |
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renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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deposed
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| v.罢免( depose的过去式和过去分词 )；（在法庭上）宣誓作证 | |
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remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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lapsing
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| v.退步( lapse的现在分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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gondola
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| n.威尼斯的平底轻舟；飞船的吊船 | |
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proprietorship
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| n.所有（权）；所有权 | |
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proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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56
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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57
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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58
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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59
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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60
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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61
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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62
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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63
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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64
ecclesiastics
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| n.神职者，教会，牧师( ecclesiastic的名词复数 ) | |
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65
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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66
resounding
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|
| adj. 响亮的 | |
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67
circumscribed
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|
| adj.[医]局限的：受限制或限于有限空间的v.在…周围划线( circumscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；划定…范围；限制；限定 | |
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68
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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69
noted
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|
| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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70
subscribed
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|
| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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71
sonorous
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|
| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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72
cistern
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| n.贮水池 | |
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73
curb
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|
| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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74
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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75
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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76
coppers
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|
| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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77
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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78
spoke
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|
| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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79
grandiose
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|
| adj.宏伟的，宏大的，堂皇的，铺张的 | |
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80
outraged
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|
| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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81
mere
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|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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82
harmonious
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|
| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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83
admiration
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|
| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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84
machinery
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|
| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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85
scanty
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|
| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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86
mighty
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|
| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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87
frail
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|
| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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88
surmounted
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|
| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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89
bust
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|
| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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90
dealer
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|
| n.商人，贩子 | |
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91
artistic
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|
| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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92
blemishes
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| n.（身体的）瘢点( blemish的名词复数 )；伤疤；瑕疵；污点 | |
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93
pointed
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|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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94
innocence
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|
| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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95
extravagant
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|
| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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96
outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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97
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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98
piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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99
promenaded
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|
| v.兜风( promenade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
concord
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|
| n.和谐；协调 | |
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101
wont
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|
| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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102
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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103
thither
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|
| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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104
peculiar
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|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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105
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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106
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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107
dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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108
poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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109
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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110
hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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111
meditate
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|
| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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112
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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113
aquatic
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|
| adj.水生的，水栖的 | |
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114
gambols
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的第三人称单数 ) | |
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115
refreshing
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|
| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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116
vivacious
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|
| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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117
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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118
exhausted
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|
| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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119
barges
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| 驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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120
schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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121
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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122
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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123
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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124
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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125
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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127
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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128
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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129
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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130
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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131
exquisite
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|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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132
morbid
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|
| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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133
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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134
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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135
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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136
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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137
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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138
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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139
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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140
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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141
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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142
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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143
analyze
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| vt.分析，解析 (=analyse) | |
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144
puerile
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| adj.幼稚的，儿童的 | |
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145
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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146
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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147
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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148
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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149
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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150
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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151
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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152
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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153
tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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154
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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155
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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156
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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157
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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158
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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159
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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160
cardinals
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| 红衣主教( cardinal的名词复数 )； 红衣凤头鸟（见于北美，雄鸟为鲜红色）； 基数 | |
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161
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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162
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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163
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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164
sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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165
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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166
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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167
mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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168
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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169
palatial
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| adj.宫殿般的，宏伟的 | |
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170
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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171
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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172
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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173
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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174
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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175
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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176
venerated
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| 敬重（某人或某事物），崇敬( venerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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177
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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178
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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179
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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180
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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181
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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182
cynosure
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| n.焦点 | |
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183
supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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184
snails
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| n.蜗牛；迟钝的人；蜗牛( snail的名词复数 ) | |
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185
stewed
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| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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186
vassals
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| n.奴仆( vassal的名词复数 )；（封建时代）诸侯；从属者；下属 | |
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187
implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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188
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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189
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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190
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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191
concoction
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| n.调配(物)；谎言 | |
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192
languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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193
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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194
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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195
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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196
displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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197
baroness
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| n.男爵夫人，女男爵 | |
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198
propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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199
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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200
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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201
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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202
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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203
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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204
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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205
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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206
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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207
infested
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| adj.为患的，大批滋生的（常与with搭配）v.害虫、野兽大批出没于( infest的过去式和过去分词 )；遍布于 | |
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208
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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209
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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210
offenders
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| n.冒犯者( offender的名词复数 )；犯规者；罪犯；妨害…的人（或事物） | |
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211
rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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212
genre
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| n.(文学、艺术等的)类型，体裁，风格 | |
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213
depredations
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| n.劫掠，毁坏( depredation的名词复数 ) | |
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214
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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215
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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216
quills
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| n.（刺猬或豪猪的）刺( quill的名词复数 )；羽毛管；翮；纡管 | |
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217
pertinent
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| adj.恰当的；贴切的；中肯的；有关的；相干的 | |
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218
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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219
browbeaten
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| v.（以言辞或表情）威逼，恫吓( browbeat的过去分词 ) | |
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220
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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221
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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222
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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223
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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224
abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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225
contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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226
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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227
dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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228
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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229
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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230
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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231
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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232
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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233
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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234
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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235
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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236
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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237
recondite
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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238
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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239
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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240
bribes
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| n.贿赂( bribe的名词复数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂v.贿赂( bribe的第三人称单数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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241
dilapidation
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| n.倒塌；毁坏 | |
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242
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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243
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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244
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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245
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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246
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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247
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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248
assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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249
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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250
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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251
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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252
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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253
niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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254
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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255
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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256
opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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257
carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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258
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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259
hooded
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| adj.戴头巾的；有罩盖的；颈部因肋骨运动而膨胀的 | |
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260
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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261
glimmers
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| n.微光，闪光( glimmer的名词复数 )v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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262
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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263
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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264
mantles
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| vt.&vi.覆盖（mantle的第三人称单数形式） | |
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265
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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266
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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267
custodian
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| n.保管人，监护人；公共建筑看守 | |
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268
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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269
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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270
humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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271
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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272
frescoed
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| 壁画( fresco的名词复数 )； 温壁画技法，湿壁画 | |
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273
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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274
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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275
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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276
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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277
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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278
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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279
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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280
explicitly
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| ad.明确地，显然地 | |
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281
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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282
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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283
incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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284
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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285
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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286
windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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287
assorted
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| adj.各种各样的，各色俱备的 | |
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288
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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289
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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290
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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291
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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