144 Midway to Lyons, Valence, the capital of C?sar Borgia’s Valentinois, rises above the river, confronted, on the opposite shore, by a wild cliff bearing the ruined stronghold of Crussol, the cradle of the house of Uzès. The compact little Romanesque cathedral of Saint Etienne, scantily7 adorned8 by the light exterior9 arcade10 of its nave11, is seated on an open terrace overlooking the Rhone. As sober, but less mellow12, within, it offers—aside from the monument to Pius VI., who ended his troubled days here—only the comparatively recondite13 interest of typical constructive14 detail; and the impressionist sight-seer is likely to wander out soon to the little square beyond the apse.
Here stands “Le Pendentif,” a curious little vaulted15 building of the Renaissance16, full of the note of character, though its original purpose seems to be the subject of arch?ological debate. Like many buildings of this part of the Rhone valley, it was unhappily constructed of a stone on which the wear of the weather might suggest the literal action of the “tooth of Time”—so scarred and gnawed18 is the whole charming fabric19. As to its original use, it appears to have been the145 mortuary chapel20 of the noble family whose arms are discernible among the incongruous animals of its decaying sculpture; for it is part of the strangeness of the little monument that the spandrils of its elegant classic order are inhabited by a rude Romanesque fauna21 which, combined with the dusky hue22 and ravaged23 surface of the stone, confers on it, in contrast to the rejuvenated25 church, a look of mysterious antiquity26.
A few yards off, down a dark narrow street, the same savour of the past is found in one of those minor27 relics28 which let the observer so much deeper into by-gone institutions than the study of their official monuments. This is simply an old private house of the early Renaissance, with a narrow sculptured courtyard, a twisting staircase, and vaulted stone passages and rooms of singularly robust29 construction. It is still—appropriately enough—inhabited by une très vieille dame30 who has receded31 so deeply into the farthest convolution of her stout32 stone shell that her friendly portress had leave to conduct us from basement to attic33, giving us glimpses of dusky chambers34 with meagre venerable furniture, and of kitchens and offices with stone floors, scoured146 coppers36 and pots of herbs, all so saturated37 with the old concentrated life of provincial38 France that it was like lifting to one’s lips a glass of some ancient wine just at the turning-point of its perfection.
VIENNE: GENERAL VIEW OF THE TOWN
Not far from Valence, Tournon springs romantically from a cliff of the west bank, surmounted39 by the ducal castle of Soubise; and the next strong impression comes where Vienne, proudest of Rhone towns, lifts its flamboyant40 cathedral on a vast flight of steps above the river. The site of Vienne, and its long Roman past, prepare one for more interest of detail than a closer inspection41 reveals. The Roman temple, which may once have rivalled the Maison Carrée, was in the Middle Ages (like the temple of Syracuse) incorporated in a Christian42 church, and now, extricated43 lifeless from this fatal embrace, presents itself as an impersonal44 block of masonry45 from which all significance of detail is gone. The cathedral, too, has suffered in the same way, though from other causes. In its early days it was savagely46 mutilated by the Huguenots, and since then the weather, eating deeply into its friable47 stone, has wrought48 such havoc49 with the147 finery and frippery of the elaborate west front that the exterior attracts attention only as a stately outline.
All the afternoon we had followed the Rhone under a cloudy sky; and as we crossed the river at Vienne the clouds broke, and we pushed northward50 through a deluge51. Our day had been a long one, with its large parenthesis52 at Grignan, and the rainy twilight53 soon closed in on us, blotting54 out the last miles of the approach to Lyons. But even this disappointment had its compensations, for in the darkness we took a wrong turn, coming out on a high suburb of the west bank, with the city outspread below in a wide network of lights against its holy hill of Fourvière. Lyons passes, I believe, for the most prosaic55 of great French towns; but no one can so think of it who descends56 on it thus through the night, seeing its majestic57 bridges link quay58 to quay, and the double sweep of the river reflecting the million lights of its banks.
* * * * *
It was still raining when we continued on our journey the next day; but the clouds broke as we climbed the hill above Lyons, and we had some148 fine backward glimpses of the Rhone before our road began to traverse the dull plain of the Bresse.
So rest, for ever rest, O princely pair!
If the lines have pursued one from childhood, the easiest—and, alas59, the most final!—way of laying their lovely spectre is to turn aside from the road to Dijon and seek out the church of Brou. To do so, one must journey for two or three hours across one of the flat stretches of central France; and the first disillusionment comes when Brou itself is found to be no more than a faubourg of the old capital of the Bresse—the big, busy, cheese-making town of Bourg, sprawling60 loosely among boundless61 pastures, and detaining one only by the graceful62 exterior of its somewhat heterogeneous63 church.
A straight road runs thence through dusty outskirts64 to the shrine65 of Margaret of Austria, and the heart of the sentimentalist sank as we began to travel it. Here, indeed, close to the roadside, stood “the new pile,” looking as new as it may have when, from her white palfrey, the widowed Duchess watched her “Flemish carvers, Lombard gilders” at work; looking, in fact, as149 scrubbed, scraped and soaped as if its renovation66 were a feat67 daily performed by the “seven maids with seven mops” on whose purifying powers the walrus68 so ingeniously speculated. Matthew Arnold’s poem does not prepare the reader for the unnatural69 gloss70 which makes the unhappy monument look like a celluloid toy. Perhaps when he saw it the cleansing71 process had not begun—but did he ever really see it? And if so, where did he see the
Savoy mountain meadows, By the stream below the pines?
And how could he have pictured the Duchess Margaret as being “in the mountains” while she was supervising the work? Or the “Alpine peasants” as climbing “up to pray” at the completed shrine, or the priest ascending72 to it by the “mountain-way” from the walled town “below the pass”?
Is Bourg the walled town, and its dusty faubourg the pass? And shall we, when we pass under the traceries of the central door, and stand beneath the vaulting73 of the nave, hear overhead the “wind washing through the mountain150 pines”? It will have to travel a long way to make itself heard!
Poor Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, so maligned74 for her imaginative pictures of Lovere and Lake Iseo, may surely be forgiven for having gilded75 the lily, for adding an extra touch of romance where the romantic already so abounded76; but it is less easy to explain how the poet of the church of Brou could evoke77 out of the dusty plain of the Bresse his pine-woods, streams and mountains. Perhaps (the pilgrim reflects) the explanation will be found within the church, and standing78 in the magic light of the “vast western window” we too shall hear the washing of the wind in the pines, and understand why it travelled so far to reach the poet’s ear.
BROU: TOMB OF MARGARET OF AUSTRIA IN THE CHURCH
In this hope we enter; but only to discover that inside also the arch?ological mops have been at work, and that the elaborate lining79 of the shrine is as scoured35 and shiny as its exterior. Well! let us affront80 this last disenchantment—and the little additional one of buying a ticket for the choir81 from a gold-braided custodian82 at a desk in the nave—and closing our eyes to the secularised, museumised aspect of the monument,151 try to open them to a vision of what it may have been before it was turned into a show.
Alas! even this last effort—this bon mouvement of the imagination—fails to restore an atmosphere of poetry to the church of Brou, to put it in any other light than that of a kind of superlative “Albert Memorial,” in which regardlessness of cost has frankly84 predominated over ?sthetic considerations. Yet it is manifestly unfair to charge the Duchess Margaret with the indiscrimination of the parvenu85. One should rather ascribe to special conditions of time and place that stifling86 confusion of ornament87, that air of being, as Bacon puts it, so terribly “daubed with cost,” which is both the first effect and the final outcome of an inspection of Brou. If Arnold gave the rein88 to fancy in his mise-en-scène, he was quite exact in picturing the conditions in which the monument was produced, and his enumeration89 of the “Flemish carvers, Lombard gilders, German masons, smiths from Spain” who collaborated90 in its making, reminds one that artistic91 unity92 could hardly result from so random93 an association of talents. It was characteristic of the time, of the last boiling-over of the heterogeneous152 Gothic pot, that this strange fellowship was not felt to be any obstacle to the production of a work of art. One sees the same result in almost all the monuments of the period, especially where the Spanish-Netherlands influence has added a last touch of profusion—and confusion. How could an art so evolved issue in anything but a chaos94 of overdone95 ornament? How could line survive in such a deluge of detail? The church of Brou is simply the most distressing96 because the most expensive product of the period. Expiring Gothic changed its outline as often as the dying dolphin is supposed to change his colours—every ornament suggests a convulsion in stone.
And on all this extravagance of design, which could be real redeemed97 only by the lightest touch of the chisel98, lies the heavy hand of the Flemish sculptor99. Is it possible that the same phase of artistic feeling produced the three tombs of Brou and those of the Dukes of Burgundy at Dijon? Certainly, at least, the same hand did not carve them. At Brou the innumerable subordinate figures—angels, mourners and the rest—are turned out with the unerring facility of the pastry-cook’s153 art: they represent the highest achievement in sugar and white of egg. At Dijon, on the contrary, each pleureur in the arcade beneath the tomb of Duke Philip is a living, sentient100 creature, a mourner whose grief finds individual utterance101. Is there anything in plastic art that more vividly102 expresses the passionate103 medi?val brooding over death? Each little cowled figure takes his grief, his sense of the néant, in his own way. Some are wrung104 and bowed with it. One prays. Another, a serene105 young man, walks apart with head bent106 above his book—the page of a Stoic107, one conjectures108. And so each, in his few inches of marble, and in the confinement109 of his cramped110 little niche111, typifies a special aspect of the sense of mortality—above all of its loneliness, the way it must be borne without help.
* * * * *
The thought came to one, the next day at Dijon, the more vividly by contrast to the simpering sorrow of Brou. The tombs of the dukes of Burgundy, so cruelly torn from the hallowed twilight of the Chartreuse, and exposed to the cold illumination of museum windows, give one, even in this impersonal light, a strong sense of154 personality. Even the overladen detail of the period, the aimless striving of its frets112 and finials, cannot obscure the serious purity of the central conception; and one is led to the conclusion that a touch of free artistic emotion will break through the strongest armour113 of stock formulas.
One sees them, of course, the ducal tombs, in a setting in a certain sense their own, since this privileged city, in addition to its other distinctions, has a medi?val palace for its museum, and the mailed heels of the recumbent dukes may have rung on the stone flagging of the Salle des Gardes where they now lie. But the great vaulted hall has ceased to be a guard-room, as they have ceased to be its lords, and the trail of label and number, of velvet114 cord and iron rail, is everywhere in their democratised palace. It is noteworthy, therefore, that, as the tombs have retained so much of their commemorative value, so the palace itself has yielded as little as might be of its private character to the encroachments of publicity116: appearing almost, as one wanders from one bright room to another, like the house of a great collector who still lives among his treasures.
DIJON: MOURNERS ON THE TOMB OF JEAN SANS PEUR
155 This felicitous117 impression is partly due to the beauty of the old building, and partly also to the fact that it houses a number of small collections, the spoils of local dilettanti, each kept together, however diversified118 its elements, so that many of the rooms exhibit a charming habitable mingling119 of old furniture, old porcelain120 and the small unobtrusive pictures that are painted to be lived with, not glanced up at from a catalogue.
The impression of happy coincidences, of really providential accidents, which gives such life to the bright varied121 museum, persists and deepens as one passes from it into the town—the astonishing town which seems to sum up in itself almost every phase of French art and history. Even the deep soil of France has hardly another spot where the past grows so thick and so vigorously, where the ancient growths lift such hale heads to the sunlight. The continuity of life at Dijon is as striking as its diversity and its individuality. Old Dijon is not an archipelago of relics in a sea of modern houses: it is like a vascular122 system, binding123 the place together in its network of warm veins124, and seeming, not to be kept alive, but to be keeping life in the city.
156 It is to this vivid synthesis of the past that one reverts125 from even the strongest single impressions—from the civic126 sumptuousness127 of the Palais de Justice, the elegance128 of the H?tel de Vogué, the mysterious symbolism of the jutting129 row of gargoyles130 on the west front of Notre Dame—suffering them to merge131 themselves, these and many more, into a crowded splendid tapestry132, the mere133 background of the old city’s continuous drama of ducal, Imperial, parliamentary life.
The same impression of richness, of deep assimilated experience, accompanies one on the way north through the Burgundian province—giving to the trivial motorist, the mere snarer134 of haphazard135 impressions, so annihilating136 a sense of his inability to render even a superficial account of what he sees, and feels beneath the thing seen, that there comes a moment when he is tempted137 to take refuge in reporting the homely138 luxury, of the inns—though even here the abundance of matter becomes almost as difficult to deal with.
It is for this reason, perhaps, that after a morning among the hills and valleys of the157 Morvan, in sight, almost continuously, of that astonishing Burgundian canal, with its long lines of symmetrical poplars, its massive masonry, its charming lock-houses, all repeating themselves like successive states of a precious etching—that after such a morning I seek, and seem to find, its culminating astonishment139 in the luncheon140 which crowned it in the grimy dining-room of the auberge at Précy-sous-Thil. But was it an auberge, even, and not rather a gargote, this sandy onion-scented “public,” with waggoners and soldiers grouped cheerfully about their petit vin bleu, while a flushed hand-maid, in repeated dashes from the kitchen, laid before us a succession of the most sophisticated dishes—the tenderest filet141, the airiest pommes soufflées, the plumpest artichokes that ever bloomed on the buffet142 of a Parisian restaurant? It corresponded, at any rate, to the kind of place where, in any Anglo-Saxon country, one would have found the company as prohibitory as the food, and each equally a reason for fleeing as soon as possible from the other.
So it is that Précy-sous-Thil may stand as a modest symbol of the excessive amenity143 of this158 mellowest144 of French civilisations—the more memorably145 to one party of hungry travellers because it formed, at the same time, the final stage of their pilgrimage to Vézelay.
That thought, indeed, distracted us from the full enjoyment146 of the filet, and tore us from the fragrant147 coffee that our panting waitress carried after us to the motor’s edge; for more than half the short April day was over, and we had still two hours of steep hill and vale between ourselves and Vézelay.
The remainder of the way carried us through a region so romantically broken, so studded with sturdy old villages perched on high ledges148 or lodged149 in narrow defiles150, that but for the expectation before us every mile of the way would have left an individual impression. But on the road to Vézelay what can one see but Vézelay? Nothing, certainly, less challenging to the attention than the loftily seated town of Avallon which, midway of our journey, caught and detained us for a wondrous151 hour.
AVALLON: GENERAL VIEW OF THE TOWN
The strain of our time-limit, and the manifold charms of the old town, so finely planted above the gorge152 of the Cousin, had nearly caused us to159 defer153 Vézelay, and end our day’s journey at the H?tel du Chapeau Rouge154. But in the mild air, and on the extreme verge155 of the bright sky, there was a threat of rain, and the longing156 to see the great Benedictine abbey against such a sunset as the afternoon promised was even stronger than the spell of Avallon. We carried away therefore (with the fixed157 intention of returning) only the general impression of a walled town set against a striking background of cliff and woodland, and one small vivid vignette of a deserted158 square where aged24 houses of incredible picturesqueness159 grouped themselves at scenic160 angles about the sculptured front of the church of Saint Lazare.
From Avallon to Vézelay the road winds to the west, between the leafy banks of the Cousin, through the town of Pontaubert, with its ancient church of the Templars, past the bridge of the Cure, and out at last into the valley dominated by the conical hill of Vézelay. All day the vision of the Benedictine church had hung before us beyond each bend of the road; and when at length we saw its mighty161 buttresses163 and towers clenched164 in the rock, above the roofs and walls of the abbatial town, we felt the impact of a great160 sensation—for the reality was nobler than the vision.
The mere sight of Vézelay from the valley—quite apart from the rush of associations it sets free—produces the immediate165 effect of one of those perfect achievements in which art and nature interpret and fulfil each other. The church stands just where such a building should stand, and looks as a building should look to be worthy115 of such a site. The landscape about it has the mingled166 serenity167 and ruggedness168 which its own lines express, and its outline grows out of the hill-top without a break between the structural170 harmony of the two.
VéZELAY: NARTHEX OF THE CHURCH OF THE MADELEINE
Before mounting up to compare the detailed171 impression with the first effect, one is detained by the village of Saint Père (Pierre) sous Vézelay, which lies just at the foot of the road leading up to the abbey. Here, from a heap of sordid172 houses, and among stifling barnyard exhalations, rises the sweet worn old church of Saint Pierre, younger in date than the abbey church above, but stained and seamed by time. From the stone embroideries173 of its triple porch and its graceful fantastic narthex, it might pass, at first161 glance, for a more than usually temperate174 specimen175 of flamboyant Gothic; but if one backs away far enough to take in its whole outline, the upper fa?ade and the tower reveal themselves as an exquisite176 instance of thirteenth-century transition. The tower, in particular, with its light ranges or arcades177, and the slender trumpeting178 angels that so surprisingly buttress162 its angles, seems, as an observant traveller has already noted179, more Italian than Burgundian—though to find its match in Italy one would have to seek, not among actual church-towers, but in the backgrounds of early Tuscan pictures, where, against a sky of gold-leaf, such heralds180 sound their call from the thatch181 of the manger.
After the mystical vision of the bell-tower of Saint Père it is almost a drop back to prose to climb the hill to Vézelay and stand before the church of the Magdelen—or rather it is like turning from the raptures182 of Joachim of Flora183 or Hugo of Saint Victor to the close-knit dialectic of Saint Thomas Aquinas. This vast creation of medi?val faith might indeed be likened to the great doctrinal system out of which it grew—such a strong, tight, complex structure, so162 studied, balanced and mathematically exact it seems.
It has seen, the great church, in its well-nigh thousand years of existence, sights so splendid and memorable184 that it seems at first a mere background for its memories—for the figures of Saint Bernard and Becket, of Philip Augustus and C?ur de Lion, with their interminable train of clerical and secular83 dignitaries, monks185, nobles, doctors of the Church, and all the wild impassioned rout186 of the second and third Crusades. To have seen so much, and now to stand so far apart from life! One reflects on the happier fate of those other great churches of lay growth, the French cathedrals, whose hearts beat warm for so many centuries, through so many social and political alternations.
The situation of the church of Vézelay typifies this deeper solitude187. It stands alone on the crest188 of the hill, divided from the town below by a wide stony189 square. Behind the apse, where the monastic buildings lay, a shady grassy190 slope simulates the privacy of an English close—and on all sides are the blue distances of the Morvan. This loftiness and detachment of site give a163 peculiar191 majesty192 to the building, and conduce no doubt to the impression that in all church architecture there is nothing quite like it, nothing in which the passive strength of the elder style so imperceptibly blends with the springing grace of the new. The latter meets one first, in the two-storied narthex, a church in itself, which precedes the magnificent round-arched portals of the inner building. It is from the threshold of this narthex that, looking down its lofty vista193, and through the triple doorways194 to the vast and stern perspective of the Romanesque nave, one gets the keenest impression of the way in which, in this incomparable building, the two styles have been wrought into an accord that shows their essential continuity. In the nave itself, with the doors of the narthex closed, another, subtler impression awaits one; for here one seems to surprise the actual moment of transition, to see, as nowhere else, the folded wings of the Gothic stirring under the older forms.
More even than its rich mysterious sculptures, far more than its mere pride of size and majesty, does this undefinable fremissement of the old static Romanesque lines remain with one as the specific164 note of Vézelay: giving it, in spite of its age-long desertion, in spite of the dead and staring look produced by indiscriminate restoration, an inner thrill of vitality195, the promise of “strange futures196 beautiful and young,” such as the greatest art alone possesses.
The long spring sunset filled the sky when we turned from Vézelay and began to wind through the valley of the Cure to Auxerre. The day had been too rich in impressions to leave space for more than a deep sense of changing loveliness as we followed the curves of the river through poplar-planted meadows, by white chalk-cliffs and villages hanging on the heights. But among these fugitive197 impressions is the vivid memory of a white railway viaduct, so lightly yet securely flung across the valley that in the golden blur198 of sunset it suggested one of Turner’s dream-bridges spanning a vale of Tempe: a notable instance of the almost invariable art with which, in French engineering, the arch is still employed. After that the way grew indistinct, and night had fallen when we entered Auxerre—feeling our way through a dimly lit suburb, seeing the lights of the town multiplied in the quiet waters of the165 Yonne, and reaching it at last by a bridge that led straight to the steep central street.
* * * * *
Auxerre, the next day—even through the blinding rain which so punctually confirmed our forebodings—revealed itself as one of those close-knit, individual old French towns that are as expressive199, as full of vivacity200 and character, as certain French faces. Finely massed above the river, in a pile culminating with the towers of the cathedral and the detached shaft201 of Saint Jean, it confirms, and indeed exceeds, on a nearer view, the promise of its distant aspect. A town which has had the good fortune to preserve its walls and one or two of its fortified202 gates, has always—and more especially if seated on a river—the more obvious opportunities for picturesqueness; and at Auxerre the narrow streets rising from the quay to the central group of buildings contribute many isolated203 effects—carved door, steep gable or opportune204 angle-turret—to the general distinction of the scene.
The cathedral itself is the heart of the charming old place—so rich in tone, so impressive in outline, so profusely205 yet delicately adorned, it166 rose at the end of the long market-square, shedding on it, even through the grey sheets of rain, the warmth of its high tawny206 masses. The design of the western front is so full and harmonious207 that it effaces208 from memory the less salient impression of the interior. Under a more favourable209 light, which would have brought out the colours of the rich clerestory glass, and the modelling of shafts210 and vaulting, it would have seemed, no doubt, less austere211, more familiarly beautiful; but veiled and darkened by rain-clouds it offered, instead of colour and detail, only an unfolding of cavernous arches fading into the deep shades of the sanctuary212.
The adjoining Bishop’s palace, with its rugged169 Romanesque arcades planted on a bit of Gallo-Roman city wall, and the interesting fragment of the church of Saint Germain, beside the hospital, are among the other notable monuments of Auxerre; but these too, masked by the incessant213 downpour, remained in memory as mere vague masses of dripping masonry, pressed upon by a low black sky.
The rain pursued us northward from Auxerre along the valley of the Yonne, lifting a little toward167 noon to leave the landscape under that grey-green blur through which the French paysagistes have most persistently214 seen it. Joigny, with this light at its softest, seemed, even after Auxerre, one of the most individual of ancient French towns: its long and stately quay, closed by a fine gate at each end of the town, giving it in especial a quite personal character, and one which presented itself as a singularly happy solution of the problem of linking a town to its river. Above the quay the steep streets gave many glimpses of medi?val picturesqueness, tucked away at almost inaccessible215 angles; but the rain closed in on them, and drove us on reluctantly to Sens.
Here the deluge hung a still denser216 curtain between us and the amenities217 of this singularly charming town. Sens, instead of being, like Joigny, packed tight between river and cliff, spreads out with relative amplitude218 between Roman ramparts transformed into shady promenades219; and about midway of the town, at the end of a long market-place like that of Auxerre, the cathedral rears itself in such nobility and strength of line that one instantly revises one’s168 classification of the great French churches to make room for this one near the top.
Its beauties develop and multiply on a nearer view, and its kinship with Canterbury makes it, to those under the spell of that noblest of English choirs220, of peculiar architectural interest. But when one has done full justice to the long unfolding of the nave, to the delicate pallour of Cousin’s glass, and to the associations attached to the “altar of Becket” behind the choir, one returns finally to the external composition of the apsidal chapels221 as the most memorable and perfect thing at Sens. The development of the chevet, which Romanesque architecture bequeathed to Gothic, is perhaps the happiest product of the latter growth on French soil; and after studying so complex an example of its possibilities as the apse of Sens presents, one feels anew what English Gothic lost in committing itself to the square east end.
SENS: APSE OF THE CATHEDRAL
Of great historic interest is the so-called Officialité which adjoins the cathedral—a kind of diocesan tribunal built under Louis IX.; but its pointed222 windows and floriated niches223 have been so liberally restored that it has the too Gothic169 look of a medi?val stage-setting. Sens has many other treasures, not only in its unusually rich collection of church relics and tapestries224, but among the fragments of architecture distributed through its streets; and in the eighteenth century gates of the archiepiscopal palace it can show a specimen of wrought-iron work probably not to be matched short of Jean Lamour’s gates at Nancy.
One of its most coveted225 possessions-Jean Cousin’s famous picture of the Eva prima Pandora—has long been jealously secluded226 by its present owner; and one wonders for what motive227 the inveterate228 French hospitality to lovers of art has been here so churlishly reversed. The curious mystical interest of the work, and its value as a link in the history of French painting, make it, one may say, almost a monument historique, a part of the national heritage; and perhaps the very sense of its potential service to art gives a perverse229 savour to its possessor’s peculiar mode of enjoying it.
From Sens to Fontainebleau the road follows the valley of the Yonne through a tranquil230 landscape with level meadows and knots of slender170 trees along the river, till the border of the forest is reached, and a long green alley17 takes one straight to the granite231 cross on the edge of the town. Toward afternoon the rain turned to a quiet drizzle232, of the kind that becomes the soft French landscape as a glass becomes certain pictures; and through it we glided233 on, past the mossy walls of great estates, past low-lying chateaux, green pièces d’eau, mid6 the long grassy vistas234 that are cut in every direction through the forests about Melun. This district of big “shootings” and carefully tended preserves extends almost to the outer ring of environs. Beyond them Paris itself soon rose smokily through the rain, and a succession of long straight avenues, as carefully planted as if they had been the main arteries235 of a fashionable suburb, led us thence to the Porte de Choisy.
To be back in the roar of traffic, to feel the terrific pressure of those miles of converging236 masonry, gave us, after weeks of free air and unbounded landscape, a sense of congestion237 that made the crowded streets seem lowering and dangerous; but as we neared the river, and saw before us the curves of the lifted domes238, the grey171 strength of the bridges, and all the amazing symmetry and elegance of what in other cities is mean and huddled239 and confused, the touch of another beauty fell on us—the spell of “les seuils sacrés, la Seine qui coule.”
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feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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wan
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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aloofness
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throng
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mid
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scantily
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adorned
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exterior
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arcade
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nave
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mellow
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recondite
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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14
constructive
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| adj.建设的，建设性的 | |
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15
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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16
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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17
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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18
gnawed
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| 咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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19
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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20
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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21
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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22
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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23
ravaged
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| 毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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24
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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25
rejuvenated
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| 更生的 | |
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26
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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27
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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28
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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29
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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30
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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31
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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33
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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34
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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35
scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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36
coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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37
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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38
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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39
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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40
flamboyant
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| adj.火焰般的，华丽的，炫耀的 | |
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41
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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42
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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43
extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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45
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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46
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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47
friable
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| adj.易碎的 | |
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48
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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49
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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50
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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51
deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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52
parenthesis
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| n.圆括号，插入语，插曲，间歇，停歇 | |
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53
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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54
blotting
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| 吸墨水纸 | |
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55
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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56
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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57
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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58
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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59
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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60
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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61
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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62
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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63
heterogeneous
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| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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64
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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65
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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66
renovation
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| n.革新，整修 | |
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67
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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68
walrus
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| n.海象 | |
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69
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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70
gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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71
cleansing
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| n. 净化(垃圾) adj. 清洁用的 动词cleanse的现在分词 | |
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72
ascending
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|
| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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73
vaulting
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| n.（天花板或屋顶的）拱形结构 | |
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74
maligned
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| vt.污蔑，诽谤（malign的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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75
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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76
abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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78
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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79
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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80
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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81
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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82
custodian
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|
| n.保管人，监护人；公共建筑看守 | |
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83
secular
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|
| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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84
frankly
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|
| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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85
parvenu
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| n.暴发户，新贵 | |
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86
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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87
ornament
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|
| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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88
rein
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|
| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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89
enumeration
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|
| n.计数，列举；细目；详表；点查 | |
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90
collaborated
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| 合作( collaborate的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾结叛国 | |
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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
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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93
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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94
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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95
overdone
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|
| v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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96
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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97
redeemed
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|
| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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98
chisel
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|
| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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99
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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100
sentient
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| adj.有知觉的，知悉的；adv.有感觉能力地 | |
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101
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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102
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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103
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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104
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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105
serene
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|
| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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106
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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107
stoic
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| n.坚忍克己之人，禁欲主义者 | |
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108
conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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109
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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110
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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111
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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112
frets
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| 基质间片； 品丝（吉他等指板上定音的）( fret的名词复数 ) | |
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113
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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114
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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115
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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116
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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117
felicitous
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| adj.恰当的，巧妙的；n.恰当，贴切 | |
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118
diversified
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| adj.多样化的，多种经营的v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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119
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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120
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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121
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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122
vascular
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| adj.血管的，脉管的 | |
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123
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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124
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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125
reverts
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| 恢复( revert的第三人称单数 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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126
civic
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| adj.城市的，都市的，市民的，公民的 | |
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127
sumptuousness
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| 奢侈，豪华 | |
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128
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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129
jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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130
gargoyles
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| n.怪兽状滴水嘴( gargoyle的名词复数 ) | |
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131
merge
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| v.(使)结合，(使)合并，(使)合为一体 | |
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132
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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133
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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134
snarer
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| n.设陷阱者，设圈套者 | |
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135
haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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136
annihilating
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的现在分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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137
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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138
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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139
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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140
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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141
filet
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| n.肉片；鱼片 | |
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142
buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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143
amenity
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| n.pl.生活福利设施，文娱康乐场所；（不可数）愉快，适意 | |
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144
mellowest
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| 成熟的( mellow的最高级 )； （水果）熟透的； （颜色或声音）柔和的； 高兴的 | |
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145
memorably
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| 难忘的 | |
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146
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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147
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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148
ledges
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| n.（墙壁，悬崖等）突出的狭长部分( ledge的名词复数 )；（平窄的）壁架；横档；（尤指）窗台 | |
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149
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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150
defiles
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| v.玷污( defile的第三人称单数 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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151
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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152
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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153
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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154
rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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155
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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156
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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157
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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158
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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159
picturesqueness
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160
scenic
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| adj.自然景色的，景色优美的 | |
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161
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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162
buttress
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| n.支撑物；v.支持 | |
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163
buttresses
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| n.扶壁，扶垛( buttress的名词复数 )v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的第三人称单数 ) | |
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164
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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166
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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167
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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168
ruggedness
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| 险峻，粗野； 耐久性； 坚固性 | |
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169
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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170
structural
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| adj.构造的，组织的，建筑（用）的 | |
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171
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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172
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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173
embroideries
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| 刺绣( embroidery的名词复数 )； 刺绣品； 刺绣法 | |
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174
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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175
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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176
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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177
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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178
trumpeting
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| 大声说出或宣告（trumpet的现在分词形式） | |
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179
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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180
heralds
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| n.使者( herald的名词复数 )；预报者；预兆；传令官v.预示( herald的第三人称单数 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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181
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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182
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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183
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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184
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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185
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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186
rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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187
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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188
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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189
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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190
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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191
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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192
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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193
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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194
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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195
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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196
futures
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| n.期货，期货交易 | |
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197
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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198
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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199
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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200
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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201
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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202
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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203
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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204
opportune
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| adj.合适的，适当的 | |
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205
profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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206
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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207
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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208
effaces
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| v.擦掉( efface的第三人称单数 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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209
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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210
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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211
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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212
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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213
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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214
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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215
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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216
denser
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| adj. 不易看透的, 密集的, 浓厚的, 愚钝的 | |
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217
amenities
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| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
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218
amplitude
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| n.广大；充足；振幅 | |
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219
promenades
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| n.人行道( promenade的名词复数 )；散步场所；闲逛v.兜风( promenade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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220
choirs
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| n.教堂的唱诗班( choir的名词复数 )；唱诗队；公开表演的合唱团；（教堂）唱经楼 | |
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221
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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222
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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223
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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224
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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225
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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226
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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227
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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228
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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229
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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230
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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231
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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232
drizzle
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| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
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233
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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234
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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235
arteries
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| n.动脉( artery的名词复数 )；干线，要道 | |
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236
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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237
congestion
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| n.阻塞，消化不良 | |
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238
domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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239
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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