Monsieur Paul was so used to see his world go and come—to greeting it with civility, and to assist at its departure with smiling indifference3 that the announcement of our own intention to desert the inn within a day or so, was received with unflattering impassivity. We had decided4 to take a flight along the coast—the month and the weather were at their best as aids to such adventure. We hoped to see the Fête Dieu at Caen. Why not push on to Coutances, where the Fête was still celebrated5 with a mediaeval splendor6? From thence to the great Mont, the Mont St. Michel, it was but the distance of a good steed's galloping—we could cover the stretch of country between in a day's driving, and catch, who knows?—perhaps the June pilgrims climbing the Mont.
"Ah, mesdames! there are duller things in the world to endure than a glimpse of the Normandy coast and the scent8 of June roses! Idylliquement belle9, la c?te à ce moment-ci!"
This was all the regret that seasoned Monsieur Paul's otherwise gracious and most graceful10 of farewells. Why cannot we all attain11 to an innkeeper's altitude, as a point of view from which to look out upon the world? Why not emulate12 his calm, when people who have done with us turn their backs and stalk away? Why not, like him, count the pennies as not all the payment received when a pleasure has come which cannot be footed up in the bill? The entire company of the inn household was assembled to see us start. Not a white mouse but was on duty. The cockatoos performed the most perilous13 of their trapeze accomplishments14 as a last tribute; the doves cooed mournfully; the monkeys ran like frenzied15 spirits along their gratings to see the very last of us. Madame Le Mois considerately carried the bantam to the archway, that the lost joy of strutting16 might be replaced by the pride of preferment above its fellows.
"Adieu, mesdames."
"Au revoir—you will return—tout17 le monde revient—Guillaume le Conquérant, like Caesar, conquers once to hold forever—remember—"
[Illustration: CHATEAU18 FONTAINE LE HENRI, NEAR CAEN]
From Monsieur Paul, in quieter, richer tones, came his true farewell, the one we had looked for:
"The evenings in the Marmousets will seem lonely when it rains—you must give us the hope of a quick return. Hope is the food of those who remain behind, as we Normans say!"
The archway darkened the sod for an instant; the next we had passed out into the broad highway. Jean, in his blouse, with Suzette beside him, both jolting19 along in the lumbering20 char-à-banc, stared out at us with a vacant-eyed curiosity. We were only two travellers like themselves, along a dusty roadway, on our way to Caen; we were of no particular importance in the landscape, we and our rickety little phaeton. Yet only a moment before, in the inn court-yard, we had felt ourselves to be the pivotal centre of a world wholly peopled with friends! This is what comes to all men who live under the modern curse—the double curse of restlessness and that itching21 for novelty, which made the old Greek longing22 for the unknown deity—which is also the only honest prayer of so many fin23 de siècle souls!
Besides the dust, there were other things abroad on the high-road. What a lot of June had got into the air! The meadows and the orchards24 were exuding25 perfumes; the hedge-rows were so many yards of roses and wild grape-vines in blossom. The sea-smells, aromatic26, pungent27, floated inland to be married, in hot haste, to a perfect harem of clover and locust28 scents29. The charm of the coast was enriched by the homely30, familiar scenes of farm-house life. All the country between Dives and Caen seemed one vast farm, beautifully tilled, with its meadow-lands dipping seaward. For several miles, perhaps, the agricultural note alone would be the dominant31 one, with the fields full of the old, the eternal surprise—the dawn of young summer rising over them. Down the sides of the low hills, the polychrome grain waved beneath the touch of the breeze like a moving sea. Many and vast were the flat-lands; they were wide vistas32 of color: there were fields that were scarlet33 with the pomp of poppies, others tinged34 to the yellow of a Celestial35 by the feathery mustard; and still others blue as a sapphire's heart from the dye of millions of bluets. A dozen small rivers—or perhaps it was only one—coiled and twisted like a cobra in sinuous36 action, in and out among the pasture and sea meadows.
As we passed the low, bushy banks, we heard the babel of the washerwomen's voices as they gossiped and beat their clothes on the stones. A fisherman or two gave one a hint that idling was understood here, as elsewhere, as being a fine art for those who possess the talent of never being pressed for time. A peasant had brought his horse to the bank; the river, to both peasant and Percheron, was evidently considered as a personal possession—as are all rivers to those who live near them. There was a naturalness in all the life abroad in the fields that gave this Normandy highroad an incomparable charm. An Arcadian calm, a certain patriarchal simplicity37 reigned38 beneath the trees. Children trudged39 to the river bank with pails and pitchers40 to be filled; women, with rakes and scythes41 in hand, crept down from the upper fields to season their mid-day meal with the cooling whiff of the river and sea air. Children tugged42 at their skirts. In two feet of human life, with kerchief tied under chin, the small hands carrying a huge bunch of cornflowers, how much of great gravity there may be! One such rustic43 sketch44 of the future peasant was seriously carrying its bouquet45 to another small edition seated in a grove46 of poppies; it might have been a votive offering. Both the children seated themselves, a very earnest conversation ensuing. On the hill-top, near by, the father and mother were also conversing47, as they bent48 over their scythes. Another picture was wheeling itself along the river bank; it was a farmer behind a huge load of green grass; atop of the grasses two moon-faced children had laps and hands crowded with field flowers. Behind them the mother walked, with a rake slung49 over her shoulder, her short skirts and scant50 draperies giving to her step a noble freedom. The brush of Vollon or of Breton would have seized upon her to embody51 the type of one of their rustic beauties, that type whose mingled52 fierceness and grace make their peasants the rude goddesses of the plough.
Even a rustic river wearies at last of wandering, as an occupation. Miles back we had left the sea; even the hills had stopped a full hour ago, as if they had no taste for the rivalry53 of cathedral spires54. Behold56 the river now, coursing as sedately57 as the high-road, between two interminable lines of poplars. Far as the eye could reach stretched a wide, great plain. It was flat as an old woman's palm; it was also as fertile as the city sitting in the midst of its luxuriance has been rich in history.
"Ce pays est très beau, et Caen la plus jolie ville, la plus avenante, la plus gaie, la mieux située, les plus belles58 rues59, les plus beaux batiments, les plus belles églises—"
There was no doubt, Charm added, as she repeated the lady's verdict, of the opinion Madame de Sévigné had formed of the town. As we drove, some two hundred years later, through the Caen streets, the charm we found had been perpetuated60, but alas61! not all of the beauty. At first we were entirely62 certain that Caen had retained its old loveliness; the outskirts63 were tricked out with the bloom of gardens and with old houses brave in their armor of vines. The meadows and the great trees of the plain were partly to blame for this illusion; they yielded their place grudgingly64 to the cobble-stoned streets and the height of dormer windows.
To come back to the world, even to a provincial65 world, after having lived for a time in a corner, is certain to evoke66 a pleasurable feeling of elation67. The streets of Caen were by no means the liveliest we had driven into; nor did the inhabitants, as at Villerville, turn out en masse to welcome us. The streets, to be quite truthful68, were as sedately quiet as any thoroughfares could well be, and proudly call themselves boulevards. The stony-faced gray houses presented a singularly chill front, considering their nationality. But neither the pallor of the streets nor their aspect of provincial calm had power to dampen the sense of our having returned to the world of cities. A girl issuing from a doorway69 with a netted veil drawn70 tightly over her rosy71 cheeks, and the curve of a Parisian bodice, immediately invested Caen with a metropolitan72 importance.
The most courteous73 of innkeepers was bending over our carriage-door. He was desolated74, but his inn was already full; it was crowded to repletion75 with people; surely these ladies knew it was the week of the races? Caen was as crowded as the inn; at night many made of the open street their bed; his own court-yard was as filled with men as with farm-wagons. It was altogether hopeless as a situation; as a welcome into a strange city, I have experienced none more arctic. I had, however, forgotten that I was travelling with a conqueror76; that when Charm smiled she did as she pleased with her world. The innkeeper was only a man; and since Adam, when has any member of that sex been known to say "No" to a pretty woman? This French Adam, when Charm parted her lips, showing the snow of her teeth, found himself suddenly, miraculously77, endowed with a fragment of memory. Tiens, he had forgotten! that very morning a corner of the attic78—un bout79 du toit—had been vacated. If these ladies did not mind mounting to a grenier—an attic, comfortable, although still only an attic!
The one dormer window was on a level with the roof-tops. We had a whole company of "belles voisines," a trick of neighborliness in windows the quick French wit, years ago, was swift to name. These "neighbors" were of every order and pattern. All the world and his mother-in-law were gone to the races;—and yet every window was playing a different scene in the comedy of this life in the sky. Who does not know and love a French window, the higher up in the world of air the better? There are certain to be plants, rows of them in pots, along the wide sill; one can count on a bullfinch or a parrot, as one can on the bébés that appear to be born on purpose to poke80 their fingers in the cages; there is certain also to be another cage hanging above the flowers—one filled with a fresh lettuce81 or a cabbage leaf. There is usually a snowy curtain, fringed; just at the parting of the draperies an old woman is always seated, with chin and nose-tip meeting, her bent figure rounding over the square of her knitting-needles.
It was such a window as this that made us feel, before our bonnets82 were laid aside, that Caen was glad to see us. The window directly opposite was wide open. Instead of one there were half a dozen songsters aloft; we were so near their cages that the cat-bird whistled, to call his master and mistress to witness the intrusion of these strangers. The master brought a hot iron along—he was a tailor and was just in the act of pressing a seam. His wife was scraping carrots, and she tucked her bowl between her knees as she came to stand and gaze across. A cry rose up within the low room. Some one else wished to see the newcomers. The tailor laid aside his iron to lift proudly, far out beyond the cages, the fattest, rosiest83 offspring that ever was born in an attic. The babe smote84 its hands for pure joy. We were better than a broken doll—we were alive. The family as a family accepted us as one among them. The man smiled, and so did his wife. Presently both nodded graciously, as if, understanding the cause of our intrusion on their aerial privacy, they wished to present us with the compliment of their welcome. The manners among these garret-windows, we murmured, were really uncommonly86 good.
"Bonjour, mesdames!" It was the third time the woman had passed, and we were still at the window. Her husband left his seam to join her.
"Ces dames7 are not accustomed to such heights—à ces hauteurs peut-être?"
The ladies in truth were not, unhappily, always so well lodged87; from this height at least one could hope to see a city.
"Ah! ha! c'est gai par2 ici, n'est-ce pas? One has the sun all to one's self, and air! Ah! for freshness one must climb to an attic in these days, it appears."
It was impossible to be more contented88 on a height than was this family of tailors; for when not cooking, or washing, or tossing the "bébé" to the birds, the wife stitched and stitched all her husband cut, besides taking a turn at the family socks. Part of this contentment came, no doubt, from the variety of shows and amusements with which the family, as a family, were perpetually supplied. For workers, there were really too many social distractions89 abroad in the streets; it was almost impossible for the two to meet all the demands on their time. Now it was the jingle90 of a horse's bell-collar; the tailor, between two snips91 at a collar, must see who was stopping at the hotel door. Later a horn sounded; this was only the fish vender92, the wife merely bent her head over the flowers to be quite sure. Next a trumpet93, clear and strong, rang its notes up into the roof eaves; this was something bébé must see and hear—all three were bending at the first throbbing94 touch of that music on the still air, to see whence it came. Thus you see, even in the provinces, in a French street, something is quite certain to happen; it all depends on the choice one makes in life of a window—of being rightly placed—whether or not one finds life dull or amusing. This tailor had the talent of knowing where to stand, at life's corner—for him there was a ceaseless procession of excitements.
It may be that our neighbor's talent for seeing was catching95. It is certain that no city we had ever before looked out upon had seemed as crowded with sights. The whole history of Caen was writ96 in stone against the blue of the sky. Here, below us, sat the lovely old town, seated in the grasses of her plain. Yonder was her canal, as an artery97 to keep her pulse bounding in response to the sea; the ship-masts and the drooping98 sails seemed strange companions for the great trees and the old garden walls. Those other walls William built to cincture the city, Froissart found three centuries later so amazingly "strong, full of drapery and merchandise, rich citizens, noble dames, damsels, and fine churches," for this girdle of the Conqueror's great bastions the eye looks in vain. But William's vow99 still proclaims its fulfilment; the spire55 of l'Abbaye aux Hommes, and the Romanesque towers of its twin, l'Abbaye aux Dames, face each other, as did William and Mathilde at the altar—that union that had to be expiated100 by the penance101 of building these stones in the air.
Commend me to an attic window to put one in sympathetic relations with cathedral spires! At this height we and they, for a part of their flight upward, at least, were on a common level—and we all know what confidences come about from the accident of propinquity. They seemed to assure us as never before when sitting at their feet, the difficulties they had overcome in climbing heavenward. Every stone that looked down upon the city wore this look of triumph.
In the end it was this Caen in the air—it was this aerial city of finials, of towers, of peaked spires, of carved chimneys, of tree-tops over which the clouds rode; of a plain, melting—like a sea—into the mists of the horizon; this high, bright region peopled with birds and pigeons; of a sky tender, translucent102, and as variable as human emotions; of an air that was rapture103 to breathe, and of nights in which the stars were so close they might almost be handled; it was this free, hilly city of the roofs that is still the Caen I remember best.
There were other features of Caen that were good to see, I also remember. Her street expression, on the whole, was very pleasing. It was singularly calm and composed, even for a city in a plain. But the quiet came, doubtless, from its population being away at the races. The few townspeople who, for obvious reasons, were stay-at-homes, were uncommonly civil; Caen had evidently preserved the tradition of good manners. An army of cripples was in waiting to point the way to the church doors; a regiment104 of beggars was within them, with nets cast already for the catching of the small fry of our pennies. In the gay, geranium-lit garden circling the side walls of St. Pierre there were many legless soldiers; the old houses we went to see later on in the high street seemed, by contrast, to have survived other wars, those of the Directory and the Mountain, with a really scandalous degree of good fortune. On our way to a still greater church than St. Pierre, to the Abbaye aux Dames, that, like the queen who built her, sits on the throne of a hill—on our way thither105 we passed innumerable other ancient mansions106. None of these were down in the guide books; they were, therefore, invested with the deeper charm of personal discovery. Once away from the little city of the shops, the real Caen came out to greet us. It was now a gray, sad, walled town; behind the walls, level-browed Francis I. windows looked gravely over the tufts of verdure; here was an old gateway107; there what might once have been a portcullis, now only an arched wreath of vines; still beyond, a group of severe-looking mansions with great iron bound windows presented the front of miniature fortresses108. And everywhere gardens and gardens.
Turn where you would, you would only turn to face verdure, foliage109, and masses of flowers. The high walls could neither keep back the odors nor hide the luxuriance of these Caen gardens. These must have been the streets that bewitched Madame de Sévigné. Through just such a maze110 of foliage Charlotte Corday has also walked, again and again, with her wonderful face aflame with her great purpose, before the purpose ripened111 into the dagger112 thrust at Marat's bared breast—that avenging113 Angel of Beauty stabbing the Beast in his bath. Auber, with his Anacreontic ballads114 in his young head, would seem more fittingly framed in this old Caen that runs up a hill-side. But women as beautiful as Marie Stuart and the Corday can deal safely in the business of assassination115, the world will always continue to aureole their pictures with a garland of roses.
The Abbaye on its hill was reached at last. All Caen lay below us; from the hillside it flowed as a sea rolls away from a great ship's sides. Down below, far below, as if buttressing116 the town that seemed rushing away recklessly to the waste of the plains, stands the Abbaye's twin-brother, the Aux Hommes. Plains, houses, roof-tops, spires, all were swimming in a sea of golden light; nothing seemed quite real or solid, so vast was the prospect117 and so ethereal was the medium through which we saw it. Perhaps it was the great contrast between that shimmering118, unstable119 city below, that reeked120 and balanced itself like some human creature whose dazzled vision had made its footing insecure—it may be that it was this note of contrast which invested this vast structure bestriding the hill, with such astonishing grandeur121. I have known few, if any, other churches produce so instantaneous an effect of a beauty that was one with austerity. This great Norman is more Puritan than French: it is Norman Gothic with a Puritan severity.
The sound of a deep sonorous122 music took us quickly within. It was as mysterious a music as ever haunted a church aisle123. The vast and snowy interior was as deserted124 as a Presbyterian church on a week-day. Yet the sound of the rich, strong voices filled all the place. There was no sound of tingling125 accompaniment: there was no organ pipe, even, to add its sensuous126 note of color. There was only the sound of the voices, as they swelled127, and broke, and began afresh.
The singing went on.
It was a slow "plain chant." Into the great arches the sonorous chanting beat upon the ear with a rhythmic128 perfection that, even without the lovely flavor of its sweetness, would have made a beauty of its own. In this still and holy place, with the company of the stately Norman arches soaring aloft—beneath the sombre glory of the giant aisle—the austere129 simplicity of this chant made the heart beat, one knew not why, and the eyes moisten, one also knew not why.
We had followed the voices. They came, we found, from within the choir130.
A pattering of steps proclaimed we were to go no farther.
"Not there, my ladies—step this way, one only enters the choir by going into the hospital."
The voice was low and sweet; the smile, a spark of divinity set in a woman's face; and the whole was clothed in a nun131's garb132.
We followed the fluttering robes; we passed out once more into the sunlit parvis. We spoke133 to the smile and it answered: yes, the choir was reserved for the Sisters—they must be able to approach it from the convent and the hospital; it had always, since the time of Mathilde, been reserved for the nuns134; would we pass this way? The way took us into an open vaulted135 passage, past a grating where sat a white-capped Sister, past a group of girls and boys carrying wreaths and garlands—they were making ready for the Fête-Dieu, our nun explained—past, at the last, a series of corridors through which, faintly at first, and then sweeter and fuller, there struck once more upon our ears the sounds of the deep and resonant136 chanting.
The black gown stopped all at once. The nun was standing85 in front of a green curtain. She lifted it. This was what we saw. The semicircle of a wide apse. Behind, rows upon rows of round arches. Below the arches, in the choir stalls, a long half-circle of stately figures. The figures were draped from head to foot. When they bent their heads not an inch of flesh was visible, except a few hands here and there that had escaped the long, wide sleeves. All these figures were motionless; they were as immobile as statues; occasionally, at the end of a "Gloria," all turned to face the high altar. At the end of the "Amen" a cloud of black veils swept the ground. Then for several measures of the chant the figures were again as marble. In each of the low, round arches, a stately woman, tall and nobly planned, draped like a goddess turned saint, stood and chanted to her Lord. Had the Norman builders carved these women, ages ago, standing about Mathilde's tomb, those ancient sculptures could not have embodied137, in more ideal image, the type of womanly renunciation and of a saint's fervor138 of exaltation.
We left them, with the rich chant still full upon their lips, with heads bent low, calm as graven images. It was only the bloom on a cheek, here and there, that made one certain of the youth entombed within these nuns' garb.
"Happy, mesdames? Oh, mais très heureuses, toutes—there are no women so happy as we. See how they come to us, from all the country around. En voilà une—did you remark the pretty one, with the book, seated, all in white? She is to be a full Sister in a month. She comes from a noble family in the south. She was here one day, she saw the life of the Sisters, of us all working here, among the poor soldiers—elle a vu ?a, et pour tout de bon, s'est donnée à Dieu!"
The smile of our nun was rapturous. She was proving its source. Once more we saw the young countess who had given herself to her God. An hour later, when we had reached the hospital wards139, her novice's robes were trailing the ground. She was on her knees in the very middle of the great bare room. She was repeating the office of the hour, aloud, with clasped hands and uplifted head. On her lovely young face there was the glow of a divine ecstasy140. All the white faces from the long rows of the white beds were bending toward her; to one even in all fulness of strength and health that girlish figure, praying beside the great vase of the snowy daisies, with the glow that irradiated the sweet, pure face, might easily enough have seemed an angel's.
As companions for our tour of the grounds we had two young Englishmen. Both eyed the nuns in the distance of the corridors and the gardens with the sharpened glances all men level at the women who have renounced141 them. It is a mystery no man ever satisfactorily fathoms142.
"Queer notion, this, a lot of women shutting themselves up," remarked the younger of the two. "In England, now, they'd all go in for being old maids, drinking tea and coddling cats, you know."
"I wonder which are the happier, your countrywomen or these Sisters, who, in renouncing143 the world devote their lives to serving it. See, over yonder" and I nodded to a scene beneath the wide avenue of the limes. Two tall Augustines were supporting a crippled old man; they were showing him some fresh garden-beds. Beyond was a gayer group. Some of the lay sisters were tugging144 at a huge basket of clothes, fresh from the laundry. Running across the grass, with flying draperies, two nuns, laughing as they ran, each striving to outfoot the other, were hastening to their rescue.
"They keep their bloom, running about like that; only healthy nuns I ever saw."
"That's because they have something better than cats to coddle."
"Ah, ha! that's not bad. It's a slow suicide, all the same. But here we are, at the top; it's a fine outlook, is it not?"
The young man panted as he reached the top of the Maze, one of the chief glories of the old Abbaye grounds. He had a fair and sensitive face; a weak product on the whole, he seemed, compared with the nobly-built, vigorous-bodied nuns crowding the choir-stalls yonder. Instead of that long, slow suicide, surely these women should be doing their greater work of reproducing a race. Even an open-air cell seems to me out of place in our century. It will be entirely out of fashion in time, doubtless, as the mediaeval cell has gone along with the old castle life, whose princely mode of doing things made a nunnery the only respectable hiding-place for the undowered daughters.
As we crept down into Caen, it was to find it thick with the dust of twilight145. The streets were dense146 with other things besides the thickened light. The Caen world was crowding homeward; all the boulevards and side streets were alive with a moving throng147 of dusty, noisy, weary holidaymakers. The town was abroad in the streets to hear the news of the horses, and to learn the history of the betting.
Although we had gone to church instead of doing the races, many of those who had peopled the gay race-track came back to us. The table d'h?te, at our inn that night, was as noisy as a Parisian cafe. It was scarcely as discreet148, I should say. On our way to our attic that night, the little corridors made us a really amazing number of confidences.
It was strange, but all the shoes appeared to have come in pairs of twos. Never was there such a collection of boots in couples. Strange it was, also, to see how many little secrets these rows of candid149 shoe-leather disclosed. Here a pert, coquettish pair of ties were having as little in common as possible with the stout150, somewhat clumsy walking-boots next them. In the two just beyond, at the next door, how the delicate, slender buttoned kids leaned over, floppingly, to rest on the coarse, yet strong, hobnailed clumpers!
Shabbier and shabbier grew the shoes, as we climbed upward. With each pair of stairs we seemed to have left a rung in the ladder of fortune behind. But even the very poorest in pocket had brought his little extravagance with him to the races.
The only genuine family party had taken refuge, like ourselves, in the attic.
At the very next door to our own, Monsieur, Madame, et Bébé proclaimed, by the casting of their dusty shoes, that they also, like the rest of the world, had come to Caen to see the horses run.
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contagious
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| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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scent
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belle
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graceful
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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emulate
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| v.努力赶上或超越，与…竞争；效仿 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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strutting
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| 加固，支撑物 | |
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tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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chateau
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jolting
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lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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itching
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| adj.贪得的，痒的，渴望的v.发痒( itch的现在分词 ) | |
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longing
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23
fin
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| n.鳍；(飞机的)安定翼 | |
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24
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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25
exuding
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| v.缓慢流出，渗出，分泌出( exude的现在分词 )；流露出对（某物）的神态或感情 | |
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26
aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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27
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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28
locust
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| n.蝗虫；洋槐，刺槐 | |
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29
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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30
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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31
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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32
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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33
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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34
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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35
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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36
sinuous
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| adj.蜿蜒的，迂回的 | |
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37
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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38
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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39
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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40
pitchers
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| 大水罐( pitcher的名词复数 ) | |
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41
scythes
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| n.（长柄）大镰刀( scythe的名词复数 )v.（长柄）大镰刀( scythe的第三人称单数 ) | |
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42
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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44
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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45
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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46
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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47
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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48
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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49
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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50
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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51
embody
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| vt.具体表达，使具体化；包含，收录 | |
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52
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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53
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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54
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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55
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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56
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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57
sedately
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| adv.镇静地，安详地 | |
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58
belles
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| n.美女( belle的名词复数 )；最美的美女 | |
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59
rues
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| v.对…感到后悔( rue的第三人称单数 ) | |
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60
perpetuated
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| vt.使永存（perpetuate的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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61
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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62
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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63
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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64
grudgingly
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65
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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66
evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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67
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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68
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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69
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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70
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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71
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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72
metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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73
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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74
desolated
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| adj.荒凉的，荒废的 | |
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75
repletion
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| n.充满，吃饱 | |
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76
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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77
miraculously
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|
| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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78
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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79
bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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80
poke
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|
| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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81
lettuce
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| n.莴苣；生菜 | |
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82
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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83
rosiest
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|
| adj.玫瑰色的( rosy的最高级 )；愉快的；乐观的；一切都称心如意 | |
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84
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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85
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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86
uncommonly
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|
| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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87
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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88
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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89
distractions
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| n.使人分心的事[人]( distraction的名词复数 )；娱乐，消遣；心烦意乱；精神错乱 | |
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90
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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91
snips
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| n.（剪金属板的）铁剪，铁铗；剪下之物( snip的名词复数 )；一点点；零星v.剪( snip的第三人称单数 ) | |
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92
vender
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| n.小贩 | |
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93
trumpet
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|
| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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94
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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95
catching
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|
| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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96
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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97
artery
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| n.干线，要道；动脉 | |
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98
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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99
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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100
expiated
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| v.为（所犯罪过）接受惩罚，赎（罪）( expiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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102
translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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103
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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104
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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105
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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106
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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107
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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108
fortresses
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| 堡垒，要塞( fortress的名词复数 ) | |
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109
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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110
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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111
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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113
avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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114
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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115
assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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116
buttressing
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| v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的现在分词 ) | |
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117
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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118
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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119
unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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120
reeked
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的过去式和过去分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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121
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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122
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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123
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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124
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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125
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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126
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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127
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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128
rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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129
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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130
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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131
nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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132
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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133
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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134
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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135
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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136
resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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137
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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138
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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139
wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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140
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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141
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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142
fathoms
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| 英寻( fathom的名词复数 ) | |
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143
renouncing
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|
| v.声明放弃( renounce的现在分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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144
tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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145
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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146
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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147
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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148
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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149
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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