A dull region at best, this department of Haute Garonne grows positively1 forbidding when the mistral rakes it, whitening the vineyards and mulberry orchards2, and bowing the shabby cypresses3 against a confused grey sky; nor is the landscape redeemed4 by the sprawling5 silhouette6 of Toulouse—a dingy7 wind-ridden city, stretched wide on the flat banks of the Garonne, and hiding its two precious buildings in a network of mean brick streets.
One might venture the general axiom that France has never wholly understood the use of brick, and that where stone construction ceases118 architectural beauty ceases with it. Saint Sernin, the great church of Toulouse, is noble enough in line, and full of interest as marking the culmination8 of French Romanesque; but compared with the brick churches of northern Italy it seems struck with aridity9, parched10 and bleached11 as a skeleton in a desert: The Capitoul, with its frivolous12 eighteenth-century front, has indeed more warmth and relief than any other building in Toulouse; but meanly surrounded by shabby brick houses, it seems to await in vain the development of ramps13 and terraces that should lead up to its long bright fa?ade.
As the motor enters the hill-country to the northeast of Toulouse the land breaks away pleasantly toward the long blue line of the Cévennes; and presently a deep cleft14 fringed with green reveals the nearness of the Tarn15—that strange river gnawing16 its way through cheesy perpendicular18 banks.
ALBI: GENERAL VIEW OF THE CATHEDRAL
Along these banks fantastic brick towns are precariously19 piled: L’Isle-sur-Tarn, with an octagonal brick belfry, and Rabastens, raised on a series of bold arcaded20 terraces, which may be viewed to advantage from a suspension-bridge119 high above the river. Aside from its exceptionally picturesque21 site, Rabastens is notable for a curious brick church with fortified22 tower and much-restored fourteenth-century frescoes23 clothing its interior like a dim richly woven tissue. But beyond Rabastens lies Albi, and after a mid-day halt at Gaillac, most desolate24 and dusty of towns, we pressed on again through the parched country.
Albi stood out at length upon the sky—a glaring mass of houses stacked high above the deep cleft of the Tarn. The surrounding landscape was all dust and dazzle; the brick streets were funnels25 for the swooping26 wind; and high up, against the blinding blue, rose the flanks of the brick cathedral, like those of some hairless pink monster that had just crawled up from the river to bask27 on the cliff. This first impression of animal monstrosity—of an unwieldly antediluvian28 mass of flesh—is not dispelled29 by a nearer approach. From whatever angle one views the astounding30 building its uncouth31 shape and fleshlike tint32 produce the effect of a living organism—high-backed, swollen-thighed, wallowing—a giant Tarasque or other anomalous33 offspring of the120 Bestiary; and if one rejects the animal analogy as too grotesque34, to what else may one conceivably compare it?
Among the fortified churches of southwestern France this strange monument is the strangest as it is the most vast, and none of the accepted architectural categories seems to fit its huge vaulted35 hall buttressed36 with tall organ-pipe turrets37, and terminating to the west in a massive dungeon38-like tower flanked by pepper-pot pinnacles39.
The interior of the great secular-looking salle is covered by an unbroken expanse of mural painting, and encrusted, overgrown almost, from the choir40 and ambulatory to the arches of the lateral41 chapels43, with a prodigious44 efflorescence of late Gothic wood-carving and sculpture, half Spanish in its dusky grey-brown magnificence. But even this excess of ecclesiastical ornament45 does not avail to Christianise the church—there is a pagan, a Saracenic quality about it that seems to overflow46 from its pinnacled47 flushed exterior48.
ALBI: INTERIOR OF THE CATHEDRAL
To reach Carcassonne from Albi one must cross the central mass of the Cévennes. The121 way leads first, by hill and dale, through a wooded northern-looking landscape, to the town of Castres, distinguished49 by a charming h?tel de ville with a box-planted garden said to have been laid out by Len?tre; and soon after Castres the “wild-ridged steeps” break away in widening undulations as the road throws its loops about the sides of the Montagne Noire—black hollows deepening dizzily below, and long grey vistas50 unfolding between the crowded peaks. Unhappily a bourrasque enveloped51 us before we reached the top of the pass, so that we lost all the beauty of the long southern descent to Carcassonne, and were aware of it only as a distant tangle52 of lights in the plain, toward which we groped painfully through wind and rain.
The rain persisted the next day; but perhaps it is a not undesirable53 accompaniment to a first view of Carcassonne, since it eliminates that tout-and-tourist element which has so possessed54 itself of the ancient cité, restoring to it, under a grey blurred55 light, something of its narrow huddled56 medi?val life.
He who has gone there with wrath57 in his heart against Viollet-le-Duc may even, under these122 mitigating58 conditions, go so far as to think that the universal restorer has for once been justified59 by his results—that, granting in advance the possibility of innumerable errors of detail, his brilliant hypothesis still produces a total impression of reality. Perhaps, too, all the floating tags of literary medi?valism—the irresistible60 “connotations” of keep and rampart and portcullis—help out the illusion, animate61 the serried62 little burgh, and people it with such figures as Dante walked among when Bellincion Berti went girt with leather. At any rate, the impression is there—for those who have the hardihood to take it—there all the more palpably on a day of such unbroken rain, when even the official custodians63 hug their stove, and a beneficent mist hides the stacks of post-cards and souvenirs waylaying64 the traveller from every window.
N?MES: THE BATHS OF DIANA PUBLIC GARDENS
The weather, however, so beneficent at Carcassonne, proved an obstacle to the seeing of Narbonne and Béziers, and drove us relentlessly65 before it to N?mes, where it gave us, the next morning, one of those brilliant southern days that are born of the southern deluges66. Here was Provence at last—dry, clear-edged, classic—with123 a sky like blue marble, low red hills tufted by olives, stony67 hollows with thin threads of stream, and a sun that picked out in gold the pure curves of the Maison Carrée.
Among the Greek towns of the Mediterranean68 there is none as Greek—or, to speak more precisely69, as Gr?co-Roman—as N?mes. No other city of old Gaul seems to have put itself so completely in harmony with its rich nucleus70 of “remains71”—eliminating or omitting the monuments of other periods, and content to group its later growth subserviently72 about the temple and the amphitheatre. It was very well for Arles to make its Romanesque venture, for Rheims to crown itself with a glory of Gothic; but with the tranquil73 lines of the Maison Carrée and the Nymph?um, the rhythmic74 spring of the arena75 arches, to act as centralising influences—above all with the overwhelming grandeur76 of the Pont du Gard as a background—how could N?mes, so far more deeply pledged to the past, do otherwise than constitute herself the guardian78 of great memories? The Pont du Gard alone would be enough to relegate79 any town to a state of ancillary80 subjection. Its nearness is as subduing81 as124 that of a great mountain, and next to the Mont Ventoux it is the sublimest82 object in Provence. The solitude83 of its site, and the austere84 lines of the surrounding landscape, make it appear as much on the outer edge of civilisation85 as when it was first planted there; and its long defile86 of arches seems to be forever pushing on into the wilderness87 with the tremendous tread of the Roman legions.
By one of the charming oppositions88 of French travel, one may return from this classic pilgrimage through the medi?val town of Uzès; and, as if such contrasts were not fruitful enough, may pause on the way to smile at the fantastic chateau89 d’Angivilliers—a half-ruined eighteenth-century “Folly” with an anachronistic90 medley91 of kiosks, arcades92, pagodas93, a chapel42 like a Roman temple, and a ruined box-garden haunted by peacocks.
CARCASSONNE: THE PORTE DE L’AUDE
Uzès itself, a steep town clustered about the ducal keep of the Crussols, has a stately terrace above the valley, and some fine eighteenth-century houses, in shabby streets insufficiently94 swept; but its chief feature is of course the castle which, planted protectingly in the centre of the town,125 thrusts up its central dungeon over a fine feudal95 jumble96 of subsidiary masonry97.
From N?mes to the Mediterranean the impressions are packed too thick. First the Rhone, with the castles of Tarascon and Beaucaire taunting98 each other across its yellow flood, Beaucaire from a steep cliff, Tarascon from the very brink99 of the river; then, after a short flight through olive-orchards and vineyards, the pretty leafy town of Saint Remy on the skirts of the Alpilles; and a mile to the south of Saint Remy, on a chalky ledge77 of the low mountain-chain, the two surviving monuments of the Roman city of Glanum. They are set side by side, the tomb and the triumphal arch, in a circular grassy100 space enclosed with olive-orchards and backed by delicate fretted101 peaks: not another vestige102 of Roman construction left to connect them with the past. Was it, one wonders, their singular beauty that saved them, that held even the Visigoths’ hands when they wiped out every other trace of the populous103 city of stone-quarriers, with its aqueducts, walls and temples? Certainly, seeing the two buildings thus isolated104 under the radiant lonely sky, one is tempted105 to exclaim that they126 might well have checked even barbarian106 violence, and that never again did the stout107 Roman trunk throw out two such flowers of grace and lightness. It is as though, from that packed Proven?al soil, some dust of Greece had passed into the Latin stem, clearing a little its thick sap; yet it is just because the monuments remain so sturdily Roman that the grace and the lightness count so much.
This Alpilles country between Rhone and Durance is itself the most Grecian thing west of Greece: Provence of Provence in every line of its bare sharp-cut heights, tufted with a spare classic growth of olive, cistus and myrtle, it explains why the Greek colonist108 found himself at home on these ultimate shores, and why the Roman conqueror109 bowed here to Attic110 influences.
Pushing southeast from Saint Remy, one comes, through a broadening landscape, to the old town of Salon111, where Nostradamus is buried, and thence, by a winding112 road among the hills, to the wide valley where Aix-en-Provence lies encircled in mountains.
SAINT-REMY: THE MAUSOLEUM
For a town so nobly seated it seems, at first approach, a little commonplace and insignificant;127 the eye, lighting113 on it from the heights, seeks a sky-line like that of Clermont or Périgueux. Aix, in this respect, remains inadequate114; yet presents itself to closer inspection115 as a charming faded old place, tinged116 with legal and academic memories, with a fine double row of balconied and sculptured h?tels along its leafy cours, and a number of scattered117 treasures in the folds of its crooked118 streets.
Among these treasures the two foremost—the picture of the Buisson Ardent119 in the cathedral, and the Gobelin tapestries120 in the adjoining Archbishop’s palace—belong to such widely sundered121 schools that they might almost be said to represent the extreme points within which French art has vibrated. It is therefore the more interesting to note that both are intrinsically and pre?minently decorative122 in quality—devotional triptych and frivolous tapestry123 obeying the same law of rigorously balanced lines and colours. The great picture of the Burning Bush is, with the exception of the Virgin124 of Moulins, perhaps the finest flower of that early French school of painting which was so little known or considered that, until the recent Paris exhibition of “Primitives,”128 many of its masterpieces were complacently125 attributed to Italian painters. Hanging midway down the nave126, where a golden light strikes it when the sacristan flings open the splendid carved doors of the west front, the triptych of Nicholas Froment unfolds itself like a great three-petalled flower, each leaf burning with a rich limpidity127 of colour that overflows128 from the Rosa Mystica of the central panel to the pale prayerful faces of the royal donators in the wings.
The cathedral has its tapestries also—a series from the Brussels looms129, attributed to Quentin Matsys, and covering the choir with intricately composed scenes from the life of Christ, in which the melancholy130 grey-green of autumn leaves is mingled131 with deep jewel-like pools of colour. But these are accidental importations from another world, whereas the famous Don Quixote series in the Archbishop’s palace represents the culminating moment of French decorative art.
They strike one perhaps, first of all—these rosy132 chatoyantes compositions, where ladies in loosened bodices gracefully133 prepare to be “surprised”—as an instructive commentary on ecclesiastical manners toward the close of the129 eighteenth century; then one passes on to abstract enjoyment134 of their colour-scheme and balance of line, to a delighted perception of the way in which they are kept from being (as tapestries later became) mere135 imitations of painting, and remain imprisoned—yet so free!—in that fanciful textile world which has its own flora136 and fauna137, its own laws of colour and perspective, and its own more-than-Shakespearian anachronisms in costume and architecture.
From Aix to the Mediterranean the south-eastern highway passes through a land of ever-increasing loveliness. East of Aix the bare-peaked mountain of Sainte Victoire dominates the fertile valley for long miles. Then the hermit-haunted range of the Sainte Baume unfolds its wooded flanks to the south, the highway skirting them as it gradually mounts to the plateau where the town of Saint Maximin in clusters about its unfinished Dominican church—a remarkable138 example of northern Gothic strayed into the classic confines of Provence.
Saint Maximin owes its existence—or that part of it contingent139 on possessing so important a church—to the ownership of the bones of Saint130 Mary Magdalen, whose supposed relics140 were formerly141 venerated142 in the great Burgundian church of Vézelay, but in the thirteenth century were officially identified among the treasures of the Proven?al town. As the penitent143 saint is supposed to have spent her last years in a grotto144 on the heights of the Sainte Baume, it seems more fitting that she should now rest at its foot than on the far-off rock of the Morvan; and one is glad that the belief was early enough established to produce the picturesque anomaly of this fine fragment of northern art planted against the classic slopes of the Maritime145 Alps.
The great Gothic church was never finished, without or within; but in the seventeenth century a renewal146 of devotion to Saint Mary Magdalen caused the interior of the choir to be clothed with a magnificent revêtement of wood-carving in the shape of ninety-two choir-stalls, recounting in their sculptured medallions the history of the Dominican order, and leading up to a sumptuous147 Berniniesque high-altar, all jasper, porphyry and shooting rays of gold.
ST. MAXIMIN: CHOIR STALLS IN THE CHURCH
Saint Maximin, though lying so remotely among bare fields and barer mountains, still131 shows, outside its church, some interesting traces of former activity and importance. A stout old Dominican monastery148 extends its long row of ogival windows near the church, and here and there a vigorous bit of ancient masonry juts149 from the streets—notably in the sprawling arcades of the Jewish quarter, and where certain fragments of wall attest150 that the mountain village was once a strongly defended medi?val town.
Beyond Saint Maximin the route nationale bears away between the mountains to Nice; but at Brignoles—a city of old renown151, the winter residence of the Counts of Provence—one may turn southward, by Roquebrussanne and the Chartreuse of Montrieux (where Petrarch’s brother was abbot), to the radiant valley of the Gapeau, where the stream-side is already white with cherry-blossoms, and so at length come out, at Hyères, on the full glory of the Mediterranean spring.
One’s first feeling is that nothing else matches it—that no work of man, no accumulated appeal of history, can contend a moment against this joy of the eye so prodigally152 poured out. The stretch of coast from Toulon to Saint Tropez, so132 much less familiar to northern eyes than the more eastern portion of the Riviera, has a peculiar153 nobility, a Virgilian breadth of composition, in marked contrast to the red-rocked precipitous landscape beyond. Looking out on it from the pine-woods of Costebelle, above Hyères, one is beset154 by classic allusions155, analogies of the golden age—so divinely does the green plain open to the sea, between mountain lines of such Attic purity.
After packed weeks of historic and arch?ological sensation this surrender to the spell of the landscape tempts156 one to indefinite idling. It is the season when, through the winter verdure of the Riviera, spring breaks with a hundred tender tints—pale green of crops, white snow of fruit-blossoms, and fire of scarlet157 tulips under the grey smoke of olive-groves. From heights among the cork-trees the little towns huddled about their feudal keeps blink across the pine-forests at the dazzling blue-and-purple indentations of the coast. And between the heights mild valleys widen down—valleys with fields of roses, acres of budding vine, meadows sown with narcissus, and cold streams rushing from the chestnut158 forests below the bald grey peaks. Among the133 peaks are lonely hermitages, ruined remains of old monastic settlements, Carthusian and Benedictine; but no great names are attached to these fallen shrines159, and the little towns below have no connection with the main lines of history. It is all a tranquil backwater, thick with local tradition, little floating fragments of association and legend; but art and history seem to have held back from it, as from some charmed Elysian region, too calm, too complete, to be rudely touched to great issues.
* * * * *
It was the mistral that drove us from this Eden, poisoning it with dust and glare, and causing us to take refuge north of the sea-board Alps. There, in a blander160 air and on a radiant morning, we left Aix behind, and followed the Durance to Avignon. Approaching the papal city from the east, one may get a memorable161 impression by following the outer circuit of its walls to the Porte de l’Ouille, which opens on the Place Crillon just below the great rock of the palace. Seen thus from without, Avignon is like a toy model of a medi?val city; and this impression of artificial completeness is renewed134 when, from the rock-perched terrace below the palace, one looks out on the Rhone valley and its enclosing amphitheatre of mountains. In the light Proven?al air, which gives a finely pencilled precision to the remotest objects, the landscape has an extraordinarily162 topographical character, an effect of presenting with a pre-Rapha?lite insistence163 on detail its sharp-edged ruins, its turreted164 bridge, its little walled towns on definite points of rock. The river winding through the foreground holds its yellow curve between thin fringes of poplar and sharp calcareous cliffs; and even the remoter hills have the clear silhouette of the blue peaks in medi?val miniatures, the shoulder of the Mont Ventoux rising above them to the north with the firmness of an antique marble.
TOULON: THE HOUSE OF PUGET
This southern keenness of edge gives even to the Gothicism of the piled-up church and palace an exotic, trans-Alpine quality, and makes the long papal ownership of Avignon—lasting, it is well to remember, till the general upheaval165 of 1790—a visible and intelligible166 fact. Though the Popes of Avignon were Frenchmen, Avignon is unmistakably, almost inexplicably167, Italian:135 its Gothic vaguely168 suggests that of the Ponte Sant’ Angelo, of the fortified arches and tombs of medi?val Rome, and reconciles itself as easily to the florid fa?ade of the seventeenth-century Papal Mint in the square below as to the delicate classic detail of the west door of the church.
Rome—but Imperial not Papal Rome—was still in the air as we left Avignon and followed the Rhone valley northward169 to Orange. All this part of France is thick with history, and in the ancient principality of Orange the layers are piled so deep that one wonders to see so few traces of successive dominations in the outward aspect of its capital. Only the Rome of the Emperors has left a mark on the town which lived with so vigorous and personal life from the days when it was a Gaulish city and a trading station of Massaliote Greeks, and which, when it grew too small for its adventurous170 brood, sent rulers to both shores of the North Sea; and the fact that the theatre and the arch survive, while the Orange of Carlovingian bishops171 and medi?val princes has been quite wiped out, and even Maurice of Nassau’s great seventeenth-century fortress172 razed173 to the ground—this permanence of the imperial136 monuments, rising unshaken through the blown dust of nearly a thousand years, gives a tangible174 image of the way in which the Roman spirit has persisted through the fluctuations175 of history.
To learn that these very monuments have been turned to base uses by barbarous prince-bishops—the arch converted into a fortified Chateau de l’Arc, the theatre into an outwork of the main fortress—adds impressiveness to their mutilated splendour, awing17 one with the image of a whole reconstructed from such fragments.
ORANGE: THE ARCH OF MARIUS
Among these, the theatre, now quite stripped of ornament, produces its effect only by means of its size, and of the beautiful sweep of its converging176 lines; but the great golden-brown arch—standing alone in a wide grassy square—keeps on three sides a Corinthian mask of cornice and column, and a rich embossing of fruit and flower-garlands, of sirens, trophies177 and battle-scenes. All this decoration is typically Roman—vigorously carved and somewhat indiscriminately applied178. One looks in vain for the sensitive ornament of the arch of Saint Remy, in which Mérimée’s keen eye saw a germ of the coming Gothic: the sculpture of Orange follows the conventional137 lines of its day, without showing a hint of new forms. But that very absence of imaginative suggestion makes it Roman and imperial to the core.
Ahead of us, all the way from Avignon to Orange, the Mont Ventoux lifted into the pure light its denuded179 flanks and wrinkled silvery-lilac summit. But at Orange we turned about its base, and bore away north-eastward through a broken country rimmed180 with hills, passing by Tulette, the seat of a Cluniac foundation—of which the great Rovere, Julius II., was Prince and Prior—and by Valréas, which under the Popes of Avignon became the capital of the Haut Comtat, the French papal dominion181 in France.
Like too many old towns in this part of France, Valréas, once a strongly fortified place, has suffered its castle to fall in ruins, and swept away its towers and ramparts to make room for boulevards, as though eager to efface182 all traces of its long crowded past. But one such trace—nearer at hand and of more intimate connotations—remains in the H?tel de Simiane, now the h?tel de ville, but formerly the house of that Marquis de138 Simiane who married Pauline de Grignan, the grand-daughter of Madame de Sévigné.
This is the first reminder183 that we are in the Grignan country, and that a turn of the road will presently bring us in full view of that high-perched castle where the great lieutenant-governor of Provence, Madame de Sévigné’s son-in-law, dispensed184 an almost royal hospitably185 and ruled with more than royal arrogance186.
GRIGNAN: GATE OF THE CASTLE
The Comte de Grignan was counted a proud man, and there was much to foster pride in the site and aspect of his ancestral castle—ce chateau royal de Grignan. If Italy, and papal Italy, has been in one’s mind at every turn of the way from Avignon to Tulette, it seems actually to rise before one as the great ruin, springing suddenly from its cliff in the plain, evokes187 a not too audacious comparison with the rock of Caprarola. In France, at least, there is perhaps nothing as suggestive of the fortified pleasure-houses of Italy as this gallant188 castle on the summit of its rock, with the town clustering below, and the vast terrace before it actually forming the roof of its church. And the view from the terrace has the same illimitable sun-washed spaces, flowing139 on every side into noble mountain-forms, from the Mont Ventoux in the south to the range of the Ardèche in the west.
The ancient line of Adhémar, created Counts of Grignan by Henri II., had long been established on their rocky pedestal when they built themselves, in the sixteenth century, the magnificent Renaissance189 fa?ade of which only the angle towers now subsist190. Later still they added the great gallery lined with full-length portraits of the Adhémar, and under Louis XIV. Mansart built the so-called Fa?ade des Prélats, which, judging from its remains, did not yield in stateliness to any of the earlier portions of the castle. From this side a fine flight of double steps still descends191 to a garden set with statues and fountains; and beyond it lies the vast stone terrace which forms the roof of the collegial church, and is continued by a chemin de ronde crowning the lofty ramparts on the summit of the rock.
This princely edifice192 remained in unaltered splendour for sixty years after the house of Adhémar, in the person of Madame de Sévigné’s grandson, had died out, ruined and diminished, in 1732. But when the Revolution broke, old140 memories of the Comte de Grignan’s dealings with his people—of unpaid193 debts, extorted194 loans, obscure lives devoured195 by the greedy splendour on the rock—all these recollections, of which one may read the record in various family memoirs196, no doubt increased the fury of the onslaught which left the palace of the Adhémar a blackened ruin. If there are few spots in France where one more deeply resents the senseless havoc197 of the Revolution, there are few where, on second thoughts, one so distinctly understands what turned the cannon198 on the castle.
The son-in-law of Madame de Sévigné was the most exorbitant199 as he was the most distinguished of his race; and it was in him that the splendour and disaster of the family culminated200. But probably no visions of future retribution disturbed the charming woman who spent—a victim to her maternal201 passion—her last somewhat melancholy years in the semi-regal isolation202 of Grignan. No one but La Bruyère seems, in that day, to have noticed the “swarthy livid animal, crouched203 over the soil, which he digs and turns with invincible204 obstinacy205, but who, when he rises to his feet, shows a human countenance”—certainly141 he could not be visible, toiling206 so far below, from that proud terrace of the Adhémar which makes the church its footstool. Least of all would he be perceptible to the eyes—on other lines so discerning!—of the lady whose gaze, when not on her daughter’s face, remained passionately207 fixed208 on the barrier of northern mountains, and the highway that ran through them to Paris. Paris! Grignan seems far enough from it even now—what an Ultima Thule, a land of social night, it must have been in the days when Madame de Sévigné’s heavy travelling carriage had to bump over six hundred miles of rutty road to reach the doors of the H?tel Carnavalet! One had to suffer Grignan for one’s adored daughter’s sake—to put up, as best one could, with the clumsy civilities of the provincial209 nobility, and to console one’s self by deliciously ridiculing210 the pretensions211 of Aix society—but it was an exile, after all, and the ruined rooms of the castle, and the long circuit of the chemin de ronde, are haunted by the wistful figure of the poor lady who, though in autumn she could extol212 the “sugary white figs213, the Muscats golden as amber214, the partridges flavoured with thyme and marjoram,142 and all the scents215 of our sachets,” yet reached her highest pitch of eloquence216 when, with stiff fingers and shuddering217 pen, she pictured the unimaginable February cold, the “awful beauty of winter,” the furious unchained Rhone, and “the mountains charming in their excess of horror.”
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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orchards
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cypresses
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redeemed
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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silhouette
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dingy
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culmination
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aridity
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parched
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bleached
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frivolous
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ramps
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| resources allocation and multiproject scheduling 资源分配和多项目的行程安排 | |
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cleft
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tarn
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gnawing
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perpendicular
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19
precariously
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| adv.不安全地；危险地；碰机会地；不稳定地 | |
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20
arcaded
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| adj.成为拱廊街道的，有列拱的 | |
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21
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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22
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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23
frescoes
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| n.壁画( fresco的名词复数 )；温壁画技法，湿壁画 | |
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24
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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25
funnels
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| 漏斗( funnel的名词复数 )； （轮船，火车等的）烟囱 | |
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26
swooping
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的现在分词 ) | |
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27
bask
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| vt.取暖，晒太阳，沐浴于 | |
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28
antediluvian
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| adj.史前的，陈旧的 | |
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29
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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31
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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32
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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33
anomalous
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| adj.反常的；不规则的 | |
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34
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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35
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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36
buttressed
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| v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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38
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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39
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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40
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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41
lateral
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| adj.侧面的，旁边的 | |
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42
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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43
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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44
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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45
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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46
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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47
pinnacled
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| 小尖塔般耸立的，顶处的 | |
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48
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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49
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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50
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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51
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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53
undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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54
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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55
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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56
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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57
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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58
mitigating
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的现在分词 ) | |
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59
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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60
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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61
animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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62
serried
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| adj.拥挤的；密集的 | |
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63
custodians
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| n.看守人，保管人( custodian的名词复数 ) | |
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64
waylaying
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的现在分词 ) | |
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65
relentlessly
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| adv.不屈不挠地；残酷地；不间断 | |
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66
deluges
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| v.使淹没( deluge的第三人称单数 )；淹没；被洪水般涌来的事物所淹没；穷于应付 | |
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67
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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68
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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69
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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70
nucleus
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| n.核，核心，原子核 | |
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71
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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72
subserviently
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73
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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74
rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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75
arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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76
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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77
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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78
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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79
relegate
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| v.使降级，流放，移交，委任 | |
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80
ancillary
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| adj.附属的，从属的 | |
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81
subduing
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| 征服( subdue的现在分词 )； 克制； 制服； 色变暗 | |
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82
sublimest
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| 伟大的( sublime的最高级 )； 令人赞叹的； 极端的； 不顾后果的 | |
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83
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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84
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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85
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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86
defile
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| v.弄污，弄脏；n.(山间)小道 | |
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87
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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88
oppositions
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| （强烈的）反对( opposition的名词复数 )； 反对党； （事业、竞赛、游戏等的）对手； 对比 | |
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89
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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90
anachronistic
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| adj.时代错误的 | |
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91
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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92
arcades
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| n.商场( arcade的名词复数 )；拱形走道（两旁有商店或娱乐设施）；连拱廊；拱形建筑物 | |
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93
pagodas
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| 塔，宝塔( pagoda的名词复数 ) | |
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94
insufficiently
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| adv.不够地，不能胜任地 | |
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95
feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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96
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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97
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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98
taunting
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| 嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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99
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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100
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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101
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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102
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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103
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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104
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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105
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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106
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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108
colonist
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| n.殖民者，移民 | |
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109
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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110
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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111
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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112
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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113
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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114
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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115
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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116
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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118
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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119
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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120
tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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121
sundered
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| v.隔开，分开( sunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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123
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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124
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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125
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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126
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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127
limpidity
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| n.清澈，透明 | |
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128
overflows
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| v.溢出，淹没( overflow的第三人称单数 )；充满；挤满了人；扩展出界，过度延伸 | |
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129
looms
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| n.织布机( loom的名词复数 )v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的第三人称单数 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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130
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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131
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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132
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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133
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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134
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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135
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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136
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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137
fauna
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| n.(一个地区或时代的)所有动物，动物区系 | |
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138
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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139
contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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140
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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141
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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142
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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143
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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144
grotto
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| n.洞穴 | |
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145
maritime
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| adj.海的，海事的，航海的，近海的，沿海的 | |
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146
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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147
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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148
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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149
juts
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| v.（使）突出( jut的第三人称单数 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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150
attest
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| vt.证明，证实；表明 | |
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151
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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152
prodigally
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| adv.浪费地，丰饶地 | |
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153
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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154
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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155
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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156
tempts
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| v.引诱或怂恿（某人）干不正当的事( tempt的第三人称单数 )；使想要 | |
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157
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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158
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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159
shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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160
blander
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| adj.（食物）淡而无味的( bland的比较级 )；平和的；温和的；无动于衷的 | |
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161
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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162
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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163
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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164
turreted
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| a.(像炮塔般)旋转式的 | |
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165
upheaval
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| n.胀起，(地壳)的隆起；剧变，动乱 | |
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166
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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167
inexplicably
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| adv.无法说明地，难以理解地，令人难以理解的是 | |
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168
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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169
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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170
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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171
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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172
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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173
razed
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| v.彻底摧毁，将…夷为平地( raze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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174
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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175
fluctuations
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| 波动，涨落，起伏( fluctuation的名词复数 ) | |
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176
converging
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| adj.收敛[缩]的，会聚的，趋同的v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的现在分词 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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177
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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178
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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179
denuded
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| adj.[医]变光的，裸露的v.使赤裸( denude的过去式和过去分词 )；剥光覆盖物 | |
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180
rimmed
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| adj.有边缘的，有框的v.沿…边缘滚动；给…镶边 | |
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181
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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182
efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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183
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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184
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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185
hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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186
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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187
evokes
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| 产生，引起，唤起( evoke的第三人称单数 ) | |
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188
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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189
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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190
subsist
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| vi.生存，存在，供养 | |
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191
descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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192
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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193
unpaid
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| adj.未付款的，无报酬的 | |
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194
extorted
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| v.敲诈( extort的过去式和过去分词 )；曲解 | |
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195
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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196
memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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197
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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198
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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199
exorbitant
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| adj.过分的；过度的 | |
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200
culminated
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| v.达到极点( culminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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201
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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202
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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203
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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204
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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205
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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206
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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207
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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208
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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209
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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210
ridiculing
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的现在分词 ) | |
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211
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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212
extol
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| v.赞美，颂扬 | |
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213
figs
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| figures 数字，图形，外形 | |
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214
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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215
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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216
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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217
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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