Crowd this hill with houses plastered to the sides of rocks, with great walls girdling it, with tiny gardens lodged1 in crevices2, and with a forest tumbling seaward. Let this hill yield you a town in which to walk, with a street of many-storied houses; with other promenades4 along ramparts as broad as church aisles5; with dungeons6, cloisters9, halls, guard-rooms, abbatial gateways10, and a cathedral whose flying buttresses13 seemed to spring from mid-air and to end in a cloud—such was the world into which we awoke on the heights of Mont St. Michel.
The verdict of the shore on the hill had been a just one; this world on a rock was a world apart. This hill in the sea had a detached air—as if, though French, at heart a true Gaul, it had had from the beginning of things a life of adventure peculiar14 to itself. The shore, at best, had been only a foster-mother; the hill was the true child of the sea. Since its birth it has had a more or less enforced separateness, in experience, from the country to which it belonged. Whether temple or fortress15, whether forest-clad in virginal fierceness of aspect, or subdued17 into beauty by the touch of man's chisel18, its destiny has ever been the same—to suffice unto itself—to be, in a word, a world in miniature.
The Mont proved by its appearance its history in adventure; it had the grim, grave, battered19 look that comes only to features, whether of rock or of more plastic human mould—that have been carved by the rough handling of experience.
It is the common habit of hills and mountains, as we all know, to turn disdainful as they grow skyward; they only too eagerly drop, one by one, the things by which man has marked the earth for his own. To stand on a mountain top and to go down to your grave are alike, at least in this—that you have left everything, except yourself, behind you. But it is both the charm and the triumph of Mont St. Michel, that it carries so much of man's handiwork up into the blue fields of air; this achievement alone would mark it as unique among hills. It appears as if for once man and nature had agreed to work in concert to produce a masterpiece in stone. The hill and the architectural beauties it carries aloft, are like a taunt20 flung out to sea and to the upper heights of air; for centuries they appear to have been crying aloud, "See what we can do, against your tempests and your futile21 tides—when we try."
On that particular morning, the taunt seemed more like an epithalamium—such marriage-lines did sea and sky appear to be reading over the glistening22 face of the rock. June had pitched its tent of blue across the seas; all the world was blue, except where the sun smote23 it into gold. To eyes in love with beauty, what a world at one's feet! Beneath that azure24 roof, toward the west, was the world of water, curling, dimpling, like some human thing charged with the conscious joy of dancing in the sun. Shoreward, the more stable earth was in the Moslem's ideal posture—that of perpetual prostration25. The Brittany coast was a long, flat, green band; the rocks of Cancale were brown, but scarcely higher in point of elevation26 than the sand-hills; the Normandy forests and orchards27 were rippling28 lines that focussed into the spiral of the Avranches cathedral spires29: floating between the two blues30, hung the aerial shapes of the Chaunsey and the Channel Islands; and nearer, along the coast-line, were the fringing edges of the shore, broken with shoals and shallows—earth's fingers, as it were, touching31 the sea—playing, as Coleridge's Abyssinian maid fingered the dulcimer, that music that haunts the poet's ear.
We were seated at the little iron tables, on the terrace. We were sipping32 our morning coffee, beneath the plane-trees. The terrace, a foot beyond our coffee-cups, instantly began its true career as a precipice33. We, ourselves, seemed to have begun as suddenly our own flight heavenward—on such astonishing terms of intimacy34 were we with the sky. The clapping close to our ears of large-winged birds; the swirling35 of the circling sea-gulls; the amazing nearness of the cloud drapery—all this gave us the sense of being in a new world, and of its being a strangely pleasant one.
Suddenly a cock's crow, shrill36 and clear, made us start from the luxurious37 languor38 of our contentment; for we had scarcely looked to find poultry39 on this Hill of Surprises. Turning in the direction of the homely40, familiar note, we beheld41 a garden. In this garden walked the cock—a two-legged gentleman of gorgeous plumage. If abroad for purely42 constitutional purposes, the crowing chanticleer must be forced to pass the same objects many times in review. Of all infinitesimal, microscopic43 gardens, this one, surely, was a model in minuteness. Yet it was an entirely44 self-respecting little garden. It was not much larger than a generous-sized pocket handkerchief; yet how much talent—for growing—may be hidden in a yard of soil—if the soil have the right virtue45 in it. Here were two rocks forming, with a fringe of cliff, a triangle; in that tri-cornered bit of earth a lively crop of growing vegetables was offering flattering signs of promise to the owner's eye. Where all land runs aslant46, as all land does on this Mont, not an inch was to be wasted; up the rocks peach and pear-split trees were made to climb—and why should they not, since everything else—since man himself must climb from the moment he touches the base of the hill?
Following the cock's call, came the droning sweetness of bees; the rose and the honeysuckle vines were loading the morning air with the perfume of their invitations. Then a human voice drowned the bees' whirring, and a face as fresh and as smiling as the day stood beside us. It was the voice and the face of Madame Poulard, on the round of her morning inspections48. Our table and the radiant world at her feet were included in this, her line of observations.
"Ah, mesdames, comme vous savez bien vous placer!—how admirably you understand how to place yourselves! Under such a sky as this—before such a spectacle—one should be in the front row, as at a theatre!"
And that was the beginning of our deeds finding favor in the eyes of
Madame Poulard.
It was our happy fate to drink many a morning cup of coffee at those little iron tables; to have many a prolonged chat with the charming landlady49 of the famous inn; to become as familiar with the glories and splendors50 of the historical hill as with the habits and customs of the world that came up to view them.
For here our journey was to end.
The comedy of life, as it had played itself out in Normandy inns, was here, in this Inn on a Rock, to give us a series of farewell performances. On no other stage, we were agreed, could the versatile52 French character have had as admirable and picturesque53 a setting; and surely, on no other bit of French soil could such an astonishing and amazing variety of types be assembled for a final appearance, as came up, day after day, to make the tour of the Mont.
To the shore, and for the whole of the near-lying Breton and Norman rustic54 world, the Mont is still the Hill of Delight. It is their Alp, their shrine55, the tenth wonder of the world, a prison, a palace, and a temple still. In spite of Parisian changes in religious fashions, the blouse is still devout56; for curiosity is the true religion of the provincial57, and all love of adventure did not die out with the Crusades.
Therefore it is that rustic France along this coast still makes pilgrimages to the shrine of the Archangel St. Michael. No marriage is rightly arranged which does not include a wedding-journey across the grève; no nuptial58 breakfast is aureoled with the true halo of romance which is eaten elsewhere than on these heights in mid-air. The young come to drink deep of wonders; the old, to refresh the depleted59 fountains of memory; and the tourist, behold60, he is as a plague of locusts61 let loose upon the defenceless hill!
After a fortnight's sojourn62, Charm and I held many a grave consultation63; close observation of this world that climbed the heights had bred certain strange misgivings64. What was it this world of sight-seers came up to the Mont for to see? Was it to behold the great glories thereof, or was it, oh, human eye of man! to look on the face of a charming woman I It was impossible, after sojourning a certain time upon the hill, not to concede that there were two equally strong centres of attractions, that drew the world hither-ward. One remained, indeed, gravely suspended between the doubt and the fear, as to which of these potential units had the greater pull, in point of actual attraction. The impartial65 historian, given to a just weighing of evidence, would have been startled to find how invariably the scales tipped; how lightly an historical Mont, born of a miracle, crowned by the noblest buildings, a pious66 Mecca for saints and kings innumerable, shot up like feathers in lightness when over-weighted by the modern realities of a perfectly67 appointed inn, the cooking and eating of an omelette of omelettes, and the all-conquering charms of Madame Poulard. The fog of doubt thickened as, day after day, the same scenes were enacted69; when one beheld all sorts and conditions of men similarly affected70; when, again and again, the potentiality in the human magnet was proved true. Doubt turned to conviction, at the last, that the holy shrine of St. Michael had, in truth, been, violated; that the Mont had been desecrated71; that the latter exists now solely72 as a setting for a pearl of an inn; and that within the shrine—it is Madame Poulard herself who fills the niche73!
The pilgrims come from darkest Africa and the sunlit Yosemite, but they remain to pray at the Inn of the Omelette. Yonder, on the grèves, as we ourselves had proved, one crosses the far seas and one is wet to the skin, only to hear the praises sung of madame's skill in the handling of eggs in a pan; it is for this the lean guide strides before the pilgrim tourist, and that he dippeth his trident in the waters. At the great gates of the fortifications the pilgrim descends75, and behold, a howling chorus of serving-people take up the chant of: "Chez Madame Poulard, à gauche76, à la renommée de l'omelette!" The inner walls of the town lend themselves to their last and best estate, that of proclaiming the glory of "L'Omelette." Placards, rich in indicative illustrations of hands all forefingers77, point, with a directness never vouchsafed78 the sinner eager to find the way to right and duty, to the inn of "L'Incomparable, la Fameuse Omelette!" The pilgrims meekly79 descend74 at that shrine. They bow low to the worker of the modern miracle; they pass with eager, trembling foot, into the inner sanctorum, to the kitchen, where the presiding deity81 receives them with the grace of a queen and the simplicity82 of a saint.
Life on the Mont, as we soon found, resolved itself into this—into so arranging one's day as to be on hand for the great, the eventful hour. In point of fact there were two such hours in the Mont St. Michel day. There was the hour of the cooking of the omelette. There was always the other really more tragic83 hour, of the coming across the dike84, of the huge lumbering85 omnibuses. For you see, that although one may be beautiful enough to compete successfully against dead-and-gone saints, against worn out miracles, and wonders in stone, human nature, when it is alive, is human nature still. It is the curse of success, the world over, to arouse jealousy86; and we all have lived long enough to know that jealousy's evil-browed offspring are named Hate and Competition. Up yonder, beyond the Porte du Roi, rivalry87 has set up a counter-shrine, with a competing saint, with all the hateful accessories of a pretty face, a younger figure, and a graceful88 if less skilled aptitude89 in the making of omelettes in public.
The hour of the coming in of the coaches, was, therefore, a tragic hour.
On the arrival of the coaches Madame was at her post long before the pilgrims came up to her door. Being entirely without personal vanity—since she felt her beauty, her cleverness, her grace, and her charm to be only a part of the capital of the inn trade—a higher order of the stock in trade, as it were—she made it a point to look handsomer on the arrival of coaches than at any other time. Her cheeks were certain to be rosier90; her bird's head was always carried a trifle more takingly, perched coquettishly sideways, that the caressing92 smile of welcome might be the more personal; and as the woman of business, lining93 the saint, so to speak, was also present, into the deep pockets of the blue-checked apron94, the calculating fingers were thrust, that the quick counting of the incoming guests might not be made too obvious an action. After such a pose, to see a pilgrim escape! To see him pass by, unmoved by that smile, turning his feelingless back on the true shrine! It was enough to melt the stoutest95 heart. Madame's welcome of the captured, after such an affront96, was set in the minor97 key; and her smile was the smile of a suffering angel.
"Cours, mon enfant, run, see if he descends or if he pushes on; tell him I am Madame Poulard!" This, a low command murmured between a hundred orders, still in the minor key, would be purred to Clémentine, a peasant in a cap, exceeding fleet of foot, and skilled in the capture of wandering sheep.
And Clémentine would follow that stray pilgrim: she would attack him in the open street; would even climb after him, if need be, up the steep rock steps, till, proved to be following strange gods, he would be brought triumphantly100 back to the kitchen-shrine, by Clémentine, puffing101, but exultant102.
"Ah, monsieur, how could you pass us by?" madame's soft voice would murmur98 reproachfully in the pilgrim's ear. And the pilgrim, abashed103, ashamed, would quickly make answer, if he were born of the right parents: "Chère madame, how was I to believe my eyes? It is ten years since I was here, and you are younger, more beautiful than ever! I was going in search of your mother!" at which needless truism all the kitchen would laugh. Madame Poulard herself would find time for one of her choicest smiles, although this was the great moment of the working of the miracle. She was beginning to cook the omelette.
The head-cook was beating the eggs in a great yellow bowl. Madame had already taken her stand at the yawning Louis XV. fireplace; she was beginning gently to balance the huge casserole over the glowing logs. And all the pilgrims were standing104 about, watching the process. Now, the group circling about the great fireplace was scarcely ever the same; the pilgrims presented a different face and garb105 day after day—but in point of hunger they were as one man; they were each and all as unvaryingly hungry as only tourists could be, who, clamoring for food, have the smell of it in their nostrils106, with the added ache of emptiness gnawing107 within. But besides hunger, each one of the pilgrims had brought with him a pair of eyes; and what eyes of man can be pure savage108 before the spectacle of a pretty woman cooking, for him, before an open fire? Therefore it was that still another miracle was wrought109, that of turning a famished110 mob into a buzzing swarm111 of admirers.
"Mais si, monsieur, in this pan I can cook an omelette large enough for you all; you will see. Ah, madame, you are off already? Célestine! Madame's bill, in the desk yonder. And you, monsieur, you too leave us? Deux cognacs? Victor—deux cognacs et une demi-tasse pour monsieur!"
These and a hundred other answers and questions and orders, were uttered in a fluted112 voice or in a tone of sharp command, by the miracle-worker, as the pan was kept gently turning, and the eggs were poured in at just the right moment—not one of the pretty poses of head and wrist being forgotten. Madame Poulard, like all clever women who are also pretty, had two voices: one was dedicated113 solely to the working of her charms; this one was soft, melodious114, caressing, the voice of dove when cooing; the other, used for strictly116 business purposes, was set in the quick, metallic117 staccato tones proper for such occasions.
The dove's voice was trolling its sweetness, as she went on—
"Eggs, monsieur? How many I use? Ah, it is in the season that counting the dozens becomes difficult—seventy dozen I used one day last year!"
"Seventy dozen!" the pilgrim-chorus ejaculated, their eyes growing the wider as their lips moistened. For behold, the eggs were now cooked to a turn; the long-handled pan was being lifted with the effortless skill of long practice, the omelette was rolled out at just the right instant of consistency119, and was being as quickly turned into its great flat dish.
There was a scurrying120 and scampering121 up the wide steps to the dining room, and a hasty settling into the long rows of chairs. Presently madame herself would appear, bearing the huge dish. And the omelette—the omelette, unlike the pilgrims, would be found to be always the same—melting, juicy, golden, luscious122, and above all hot!
The noon-day table d'h?te was always a sight to see. Many of the pilgrim-tourists came up to the Mont merely to pass the day, or to stop the night; the midday meal was therefore certain to be the liveliest of all the repasts.
The cloth was spread in a high, white, sunlit room. It was a trifle bare, this room, in spite of the walls being covered with pictures, the windows with pretty draperies, and the spotless linen124 that covered the long table. But all temples, however richly adorned125, have a more or less unfurnished aspect; and this room served not only as the dining-table, but also as a foreshadowing of the apotheosis126 of Madame Poulard. Here were grouped together all the trophies127 and tributes of a grateful world; there were portraits of her charming brunette face signed by famous admirers; there were sonnets128 to her culinary skill and her charms as hostess, framed; these alternated with gifts of horned beasts that had been slain129 in her honor, and of stuffed birds who, in life, had beguiled130 the long winters for her with their songs. About the wide table, the snow of the linen reflected always the same picture; there were rows of little palms in flower-pots, interspersed131 with fruit dishes, with the butter pats, the almonds, and raisins132, in their flat plates.
The rows of faces above the cloth were more varied133. The four corners of the earth were sometimes to be seen gathered together about the breakfast-table. Frenchmen of the Midi, with the skin of Spaniards and the buzz of Tartarin's ze ze in their speech; priests, lean and fat; Germans who came to see a French stronghold as defenceless as a woman's palm; the Italian, a rarer type, whose shoes, sufficiently134 pointed68 to prick135, and whose choice for décolleté collars betrayed his nationality before his lisping French accent could place him indisputably beyond the Alps; herds136 of English—of all types—from the aristocrat137, whose open-air life had colored his face with the hues138 of a butcher, to the pale, ascetic139 clerk, off on a two weeks' holiday, whose bending at his desk had given him the stoop of a scholar; with all these were mixed hordes140 of French provincials141, chiefly of the bourgeois142 type, who singly, or in family parties, or in the nuptial train of sons or daughters, came up to the shrine of St. Michel.
To listen to the chatter143 of these tourists was to learn the last word of the world's news. As in the days before men spoke144 to each other across continents, and the medium of cold type had made the event of to-day the history of to-morrow, so these pilgrims talked through the one medium that alone can give a fact the real essence of freshness—the ever young, the perdurably charming human voice. It was as good as sitting out a play to watch the ever-recurring characteristics, which made certain national traits as marked as the noses on the faces of the tourists. The question, for example, on which side the Channel a pilgrim was born, was settled five seconds after he was seated at table. The way in which the butter was passed was one test; the manner of the eating of the famous omelette was another. If the tourist were a Frenchman, the neat glass butter-dish was turned into a visiting-card—a letter of introduction, a pontoon-bridge, in a word, hastily improvised145 to throw across the stream of conversation. "Madame" (this to the lady at the tourist's left), "me permet-elle de lui offrir le beurre?" Whereat madame bowed, smiled, accepted the golden balls as if it were a bouquet146, returning the gift, a few seconds later, by the proffer147 of the gravy148 dish. Between the little ceremony of the two bows and the smiling mercis, a tentative outbreak of speech ensued, which at the end of a half-hour, had spread from bourgeois to countess, from curé to Parisian boulevardier, till the entire side of the table was in a buzz of talk. These genial149 people of a genial land finding themselves all in search of the same adventure, on top of a hill, away from the petty world of conventionality, remembered that speech was given to man to communicate with his fellows. And though neighbors for a brief hour, how charming such an hour can be made when into it are crowded the effervescence of personal experience, the witty150 exchange of comment and observation, and the agreeable conflict of thought and opinion!
On the opposite side of the table, what a contrast! There the English were seated. There was the silence of the grave. All the rigid151 figures sat as upright as posts. In front of these severe countenances152, the butter-plates remained as fixtures153; the passing of them to a neighbor would be a frightful155 breach156 of good form—besides being dangerous. Such practices, in public places, had been known to lead to things—to unspeakable things—to knowing the wrong people, to walks afterward157 with cads one couldn't shake off, even to marriages with the impossible! Therefore it was that the butter remained a fixture154. Even between those who formed the same tourist-party, there was rarely such an act of self-forgetfulness committed as an indulgence in talk—in public. The eye is the only active organ the Englishman carries abroad with him; his talking is done by staring. What fierce scowls158, what dark looks of disapproval159, contempt, and dislike were levelled at the chattering160 Frenchmen opposite.
[Illustration: MONT SAINT MICHEL SNAIL-GATHERERS]
Across the table, the national hate perpetuated161 itself. It appears to be a test of patriotism162, this hatred163 between Frenchmen and Englishmen. That strip of linen might easily have been the Channel itself; it could scarcely more effectually have separated the two nations. A whole comedy of bitterness, a drama of rivalry, and a five-act tragedy of scorn were daily played between the Briton who sat facing the south, and the Frenchman who faced north. Both, as they eyed their neighbor over the foam165 of their napkins, had the Island in their eye!—the Englishman to flaunt166 its might and glory in the teeth of the hated Gaul, and the Frenchman to return his contempt for a nation of moist barbarians167.
Meanwhile, the omelette was going its rounds. It was being passed at that moment to Monsieur le Curé. He had been watching its progress with glistening eye and moistening lips. Madame Poulard, as she slipped the melting morsel168 beneath his elbow, had suddenly assumed the role of the penitent169. Her tone was a reminder170 of the confessional, as of one who passed her masterpiece apologetically. She, forsooth, a sinner, to have the honor of ministering to the carnal needs of a son of the Church!
The son of the Church took two heaping spoonfuls. His eye gave her, with his smile, the benediction171 of his gratitude172, even before he had tasted of the luscious compound.
"Ah, chère madame! il n'y a que vous—it is only you who can make the ideal omelette! I have tried, but Suzette has no art in her fingers; your receipt doesn't work away from the Mont!" And the good man sighed as he chuckled173 forth174 his praises.
He had come up to the hill in company with the two excellent ladies beside him, of his flock, to make a little visit to his brethren yonder, to the priests who were still here, wrecks175 of the once former flourishing monastery176. He had come to see them, and also to gaze on La Merveille. It was a good five years since he had looked upon its dungeons and its lace-work. But after all, in his secret soul of souls, he had longed to eat of the omelette. Dieu! how often during those slow, quiet years in the little hamlet yonder on the plain, had its sweetness and lightness mocked his tongue with illusive177 tasting! Little wonder, therefore, that the good curé's praises were sweet in madame's ear, for they had the ring of truth—and of envy! And madame herself was only mortal, for what woman lives but feels herself uplifted by the sense of having found favor in the eyes of her priest?
The omelette next came to a halt between the two ladies of the curé's flock. These were two bourgeoises with the deprecating, mistrustful air peculiar to commonplace the world over. The walk up the steep stairs was still quickening their breath their compressed bosoms178 were straining the hooks of their holiday woollen bodices—cut when they were of slenderer build. Their bonnets180 proclaimed the antique fashions of a past decade; but the edge of their tongues had the keenness that comes with daily practice—than which none has been found surer than adoration181 of one's pastor182, and the invigorating gossip of small towns.
These ladies eyed the omelette with a chilled glance. Naturally, they could not see as much to admire in Madame Poulard or in her dish as did their curé. There was nothing so wonderful after all in the turning of eggs over a hot fire. The omelette!—after all, an omelette is an omelette! Some are better—some are worse; one has one's luck in cooking as in anything else. They had come up to the Mont with their good curé to see its wonders and for a day's outing; admiration184 of other women had not been anticipated as a part of the programme. Tiens—who was he talking to now? To that tall blonde—a foreigner, a young girl—tiens—who knows?—possibly an American—those Americans are terrible, they say—bold, immodest, irreverent. And the two ladies' necks were screwed about their over-tight collars, to give Charm the verdict of their disapproval.
"Monsieur le Curé, they are passing you the fish!" cried the stouter186, more aggressive parishioner, who boasted a truculent187 mustache.
"Monsieur le Curé, the roast is at your elbow!" interpolated the second, with the more timid voice of a second in action; this protector of the good curé had no mustache, but her face was mercifully protected by nature from a too-disturbing combination of attractions, by being plentifully188 punctuated189 with moles190 from which sprouted191 little tufts of hair. The rain of these ladies' interruption was incessant192; but the curé was a man of firm mind; their efforts to recapture his attention were futile. For the music of Charm's foreign voice was in his ear. Worship of the cloth is not a national, it is a more or less universal cult118, I take it. It is in the blood of certain women. Opposite the two fussy193, jealous bourgeoises, were others as importunate194 and aggressive. They were of fair, lean, lank195 English build, with the shifting eyes and the persistent196 courage which come to certain maidens197 in whose lives there is but one fixed198 and certain fact—that of having missed the matrimonial market. The shrine of their devotions, and the present citadel199 of their attack, was seated between them—he also being lean, pale, high-arched of brow, high anglican by choice, and noticeably weak of chin, in whose sable200 garments there was framed the classical clerical tie.
To this curate Madame was now passing her dish. She still wore her fine sweet smile, but there was always a discriminating201 reserve in its edge when she touched the English elbow. The curate took his spoonful with the indifference202 of a man who had never known the religion of good eating. He put up his one eye-glass; it swept Madame's bending face, its smile, and the yellow glory floating beneath both. "Ah-h—ya-as—an omelette!" The glass was dropped; he took a meagre spoonful which he cut, presently, with his knife. He turned then to his neighbors—to both his neighbors! They had been talking of the parish church on the hill.
"Ah-h-h, ya-as—lovely porch—isn't it?"
"Oh, lovely—lovely!" chorussed the two maidens, with assenting203 fervor204. "Were you there this morning?" and they lifted eyes swimming with the rapture205 of their admiration.
"Ya-as."
"Only fancy—our missing you! We were both there!"
"Dear me! Really, were you?"
"Could you go this afternoon? I do want so to hear your criticism of my drawing—I'm working on the arch now."
"So sorry—can't—possibly. I promised what's his name to go over to
Tombelaine, don't you know!"
"Oh-h! We do so want to go to Tombelaine!"
"Ah-h—do you, really? One ought to start a little before the tide drops—they tell me!" and the clerical eye, through its correctly adjusted glass, looked into those four pleading eyes with no hint of softening206. The dish that was the masterpiece of the house, meanwhile, had been despatched as if it were so much leather.
The omelette fared no better with the brides, as a rule, than with the English curates. Such a variety of brides as came up to the Mont! You could have your choice, at the midday meal, of almost any nationality, age, or color. The attempt among these bridal couples to maintain the distant air of a finished indifference only made their secret the more open. The British phlegm, on such a journey, did not always serve as a convenient mask; the flattering, timid glance, the ripple207 of the tender whispers, and the furtive208 touching of fingers beneath the table, made even these English couples a part of the great human marrying family; their superiority to their fellows would return, doubtless, when the honey had dried out of their moon. The best of our adventures into this tender country were with the French bridal tourists; they were certain to be delightfully209 human. As we had had occasion to remark before, they were off, like ourselves, on a little voyage of discovery; they had come to make acquaintance with the being to whom they were mated for life. Various degrees of progress could be read in the air and manner of the hearty212 young bourgeoises and their paler or even ruddier partners, as they crunched213 their bread or sipped214 their thin wine. Some had only entered as yet upon the path of inquiry215; others had already passed the mile-stone of criticism; and still others had left the earth and were floating in full azure of intoxication216. Of the many wedding parties that sat down to breakfast, we soon made the commonplace discovery that the more plebeian217 the company, the more certain-orbed appeared to be the promise of happiness.
Some of the peasant weddings were noisy, boisterous218 performances; but how gay were the brides, and how bloated with joy the hardy219, knotty220-handied grooms221! These peasant wedding guests all bore a striking family likeness223; they might easily all have been brothers and sisters, whether they had come from the fields near Pontorson, or Cancale, or Dol, or St. Malo. The older the women, the prettier and the more gossamer224 were the caps; but the younger maidens were always delightful210 to look upon, such was the ripe vigor183 of their frames, and the liquid softness of eyes that, like animals, were used to wide sunlit fields and to great skies full of light. The bride, in her brand-new stuff gown, with a bonnet179 that recalled the bridal wreath only just laid aside, was also certain to be of a general universal type with the broad hips225, wide waist, muscular limbs, and the melting sweetness of lips and eyes that only abundant health and a rich animalism of nature bring to maidenhood226.
Madame Poulard's air with this, her world, was as full of tact227 as with the tourists. Many of the older women would give her the Norman kiss, solemnly, as if the salute228 were a part of the ceremony attendant on the eating of a wedding breakfast at Mont St. Michel. There would be a three times' clapping of the wrinkled or the ruddy peasant cheeks against the sides of Madame Poulard's daintier, more delicately modelled face. Then all would take their seats noisily at table. It was Madame Poulard who then would bring us news of the party; at the end of a fortnight, Charm and I felt ourselves to be in possession of the hidden and secret reasons for all the marrying that had been done along the coast, that year. "Tiens, ce n'est pas gai, la noce! I must learn the reason!" Madame would then flutter over the bridal breakfasters as a delicate plumaged bird hovers229 over a mass of stuff out of which it hopes to make a respectable meal. She presently would return to murmur in a whisper, "it is a mariage de raison. They, the bride and groom222, love elsewhere, but they are marrying to make a good partnership230; they are both hair-dressers at Caen. They have bought a new and fine shop with their earnings231." Or it would be, "Look, madame, at that jolie personne; see how sad she looks. She is in love with her cousin who sits opposite, but the groom is the old one. He has a large farm and a hundred cows." To look on such a trio would only be to make the acquaintance anew of Sidonie and Risler and of Froment Jeune. Such brides always had the wandering gaze of those in search of fresh horizons, or of those looking already for the chance of escape. For such "unhappies," ces malheureuses, Madame's manner had an added softness and tenderness; she passed the frosted bridal cake as if it were a propitiatory232 offering to the God of Hymen. However melancholy233 the bride, the cake and Madame's caressing smiles wrought ever the same spell; for an instant, at least, the newly-made wife was in love with matrimony and with the cake, accepting the latter with the pleased surprise of one who realizes that, at least, on one's wedding day, one is a person of importance; that even so far as Mont St. Michel the news of their marriage had turned the ovens into a baking of wedding-cakes. This was destined234 to be the first among the deceptions235 that greeted such brides; for there were hundreds of such cakes, alas236! kept constantly on hand. They were the same—a glory of sugar-mouldings and devices covering a mountain of richness—that were sent up yearly at Christmas time to certain mansard studios in the Latin quarter, where the artist recipients237, like the brides, eat of the cake as did Adam when partaking of the apple, believing all the woman told them!
There were other visitors who came up to the Mont, not as welcome as were these tourist parties.
One morning, as we looked toward Pontorson, a small black cloud appeared to be advancing across the bay. The day was windy; the sky was crowded with huge white mountains—round, luminous238 clouds that moved in stately sweeps. And the sea was the color one loves to see in an earnest woman's eye, the dark-blue sapphire239 that turns to blue-gray. This was a setting that made that particular cloud, making such slow progress across from the shore, all the more conspicuous240. Gradually, as the black mass neared the dike, it began to break and separate; and we saw plainly enough that the scattering241 particles were human beings.
It was, in point of fact, a band of pilgrims; a peasant pilgrimage was coming up to the Mont. In wagons243, in market carts, in char-à-bancs, in donkey-carts, on the backs of monster Percherons—the pilgrimage moved in slow processional dignity across the dike. Some of the younger black gowns and blue blouses attempted to walk across over the sands; we could see the girls sitting down on the edge of the shore, to take off their shoes and stockings and to tuck up their thick skirts. When they finally started they were like unto so many huge cheeses hoisted244 on stilts245. The bare legs plunged246 boldly forward, keeping ahead of the slower-moving peasant-lads; the girls' bravery served them till they reached the fringe of the incoming tide; not until their knees went under water did they forego their venture. A higher wave came in, deluging247 the ones farthest out; and then ensued a scampering toward the dike and a climbing up of the stone embankment. The old route across the sands, that had been the only one known to kings and barons248, was not good enough for a modern Norman peasant. The religion of personal comfort has spread even as far as the fields.
At the entrance gate a tremendous hubbub249 and noise announced the arrival of the pilgrimage. Wagons, carts, horses, and peasants were crowded together as only such a throng250 is mixed in pilgrimages, wars, and fairs. Women were taking down hoods251, unharnessing the horses, fitting slats into outsides of wagons, rolling up blankets, unpacking252 from the char-à-bancs cooking utensils253, children, grain-bags, long columns of bread, and hard-boiled eggs. For the women, darting254 hither and thither255 in their blue petticoats, their pink and red kerchiefs, and the stiff white Norman caps, were doing all the work. The men appeared to be decorative256 adjuncts, plying257 the Norman's gift of tongue across wagon242-wheels and over the back of their vigorous wives and daughters. For them the battle of the day was over; the hour of relaxation258 had come. The bargains they had made along the route were now to be rehearsed, seasoned with a joke.
"Allons, toi, on ne fait pas de la monnaie blanche comme ca!"
"Je t'ai offert huit sous, tu sais, lapin!"
"Farceur, va-t'en—"
"Come, are you never going to have done fooling?" cried a tan-colored, wide-hipped peasant to her husband, who was lounging against the wagon pole, sporting a sprig of gentian pinned to his blouse. He was fat and handsome; and his eye proclaimed, as he was making it do heavy work at long range at a cluster of girls descending259 from an antique gig, that the knowledge of the same was known unto him.
"That's right, growl260 ahead, thou, tes beaux jours sont passés, but for me l'amour, l'amour—que c'est gai, que c'est frais!" he half sung, half shouted.
The moving mass of color, the Breton caps, and the Norman faces, the gold crosses that fell from dented261 bead262 necklaces, the worn hooped263 earrings264, the clean bodices and home-spun skirts, streamed out past our windows as we looked down upon them. How pretty were some of the faces, of the younger women particularly! and with what gay spirits they were beginning their day! It had begun the night before, almost; many of the carts had been driven in from the forests beyond Avranches; some of the Brittany groups had started the day before. But what can quench265 the fountain of French vivacity266? To see one's world, surely, there is nothing in that to tire one; it only excites and exhilarates; and so a fair or market day, and above all a pilgrimage, are better than balls, since they come more regularly; they are the peasant's opera, his Piccadilly and Broadway, club, drawing-room, Exchange, and parade, all in one.
A half-hour after a landing of the pilgrims at the outer gates of the fortifications, the hill was swarming267 with them. The single street of the town was choked with the black gowns and the cobalt-blue blouses. Before these latter took a turn at their devotions they did homage268 to Bacchus. Crowds of peasants were to be seen seated about the long, narrow inn-tables, lifting huge pewter tankards to bristling269 beards. Some of these taverns270 were the same that had fed and sheltered bands of pilgrims that are now mere123 handfuls of dust in country churchyards. Those sixteenth century pilgrims, how many of them, had found this same arched doorway271 of La Licorne as cool as the shade of great trees after the long hot climb up to the hill! What a pleasant face has the timbered facade272 of the Tête d'Or, and the Mouton Blanc, been to the weary-limbed: and how sweet to the dead lips has been the first taste of the acid cider!
Other aspects of the hill, on this day of the pilgrimage, made those older dead-and-gone bands of pilgrims astonishingly real. On the tops of bastions, in the clefts273 of the rocks, beneath the glorious walls of La Merveille, or perilously274 lodged on the crumbling275 cornice of a tourelle, numerous rude altars had been hastily erected276. The crude blues and scarlets279 of banners were fluttering, like so many pennants280, in the light breeze. Beneath the improvised altar-roofs—strips of gay cloth stretched across poles stuck into the ground—were groups not often seen in these less fervent281 centuries. High up, mounted on the natural pulpit formed of a bit of rock, with the rude altar before him, with its bit of scarlet278 cloth covered with cheap lace, stood or knelt the priest. Against the wide blue of the open heaven his figure took on an imposing282 splendor51 of mien283 and an unmodern impressiveness of action. Beneath him knelt, with bowed heads, the groups of the peasant-pilgrims; the women, with murmuring lips and clasped hands, their strong, deeply-seamed faces outlined, with the precision of a Francesco painting, against the gray background of a giant mass of wall, or the amazing breadth of a vast sea-view; children, squat284 and chubby285, with bulging286 cheeks starting from the close-fitting French bonnet; and the peasant-farmers, mostly of the older varieties, whose stiffened287 or rheumatic knees and knotty hands made their kneeling real acts of devotional zeal288. There were a dozen such altars and groups scattered289 over the perpendicular290 slant47 of the hill. The singing of the choir291-boys, rising like skylark notes into the clear space of heaven, would be floating from one rocky-nested chapel292, while below, in the one beneath which we, for a moment, were resting, there would be the groaning293 murmur of the peasant groups in prayer.
All day little processions were going up and down the steep stone steps that lead from fortified294 rock to parish church, and from the town to the abbatial gateway11. The banners and the choir-boys, the priests in their embroideries295 and lace, the peasants in cap and blouse, were incessantly296 mounting and descending, standing on rock edges, caught for an instant between a medley297 of perpendicular roofs, of giant gateways, and a long perspective of fortified walls, only to be lost in the curve of a bastion, or a flying buttress12, that, in their turn, would be found melting into a distant sea-view.
All the hours of a pilgrimage, we discovered, were not given to prayer; nor yet is an incessant bowing at the shrine of St. Michel the sole other diversion in a true pilgrim's round of pious devotions. Later on in this eventful day, we stumbled on a somewhat startling variation to the penitential order of the performances. In a side alley298, beneath a friendly overhanging rock and two protecting roof-eaves, an acrobat299 was making her professional toilet. When she emerged to lay a worn strip of carpet on the rough cobbles of the street, she presented a pathetic figure in the gold of the afternoon sun. She was old and wrinkled; the rouge301 would no longer stick to the sunken cheeks; the wrinkles were become clefts; the shrunken but still muscular legs were clad in a pair of tights, a very caricature of the silken webs that must once have encased the poor old creature's limbs, for these were knitted of the coarse thread the commonest peasant uses for the rough field stocking. Over these obviously home-made coverings was a single skirt of azure tarlatan, plentifully besprinkled with golden stars. The gossamer skirt and its spangles turned, for their début, a somersault in the air, and the knitted tights took strange leaps from the bars of a rude trapeze. The groups of peasants were soon thicker about this spectacle than they had gathered about the improvised altars. All the men who had passed the day in the taverns came out at the sound of the hoarse302 cracked voice of the aged164 acrobat. As she hurled303 her poor old twisted shape from swinging bar to pole, she cried aloud, "Ah, messieurs, essayez ?a seulement!" The men's hands, when she had landed on her feet after an uncommonly304 venturous whirl of the blue skirts in mid-air, came out of their deep pockets; but they seasoned their applause with coarse jokes which they flung, with a cruel relish305, into the pitifully-aged face. A cracked accordion306 and a jingling307 tambourine308 were played by two hardened-looking ruffians, seated on their heels beneath a window—a discordant309 music that could not drown the noise of the peasants' derisive310 laughter. But the latter's pennies rattled311 a louder jingle312 into the ancient acrobat's tin cup than it had into the priest's green netted contribution box.
"No, madame, as for us, we do not care for pilgrimages," was Madame Poulard's verdict on such survivals of past religious enthusiasms. And she seasoned her comments with an enlightening shrug313. "We see too well how they end. The men go home dead drunk, the women are dropping with fatigue314, et les enfants même se grisent de cidre! No; pilgrimages are bad for everyone. The priests should not allow them."
This was at the end of the day, after the black and blue swarm had passed, a weary, uncertain-footed throng, down the long street, to take its departure along the dike. At the very end of the straggling procession came the three acrobats315; they had begged, or bought, a drive across the dike from some of the pilgrims. The lady of the knitted tights, in her conventional skirts and womanly fichu, was scarcely distinguishable from the peasant women who eyed her askance; though decently garbed316 now, they looked at her as if she were some plague or vice3 walking in their midst.
The verdict of Madame Poulard seemed to be the verdict of all Mont St. Michel. The whole town was abroad that evening, on its doorsteps and in its garden beds, repairing the ravages317 committed by the band of the pilgrims. Never had the town, as a town, been so dirty; never had the street presented so shocking a collection of abominations; never had flowers and shrubs318 been so mercilessly robbed and plundered—these were the comments that flowed as freely as the water that was rained over the dusty cobbles, thick with refuse of luncheon320 and the shreds321 of torn skirts and of children's socks.
At any hour of the day, of even an ordinary, uneventful day, to take a walk in the town is to encounter a surprise at every turning. Would you call it a town—this one straggling street that begins in a King's gateway and ends—ah, that is the point, just where does it end? I, for one, was never once quite certain at just what precise point this one single Mont St. Michel street stopped—lost itself, in a word, and became something else. That was also true of so many other things on the hill; all objects had such an astonishing way of suddenly becoming something else. A house, for example, that you had passed on your upward walk, had a beguiling322 air of sincerity323. It had its cellar beneath the street front like any other properly built house; it continued its growth upward, showing the commonplace features of a door, of so many windows—queerly spaced, and of an amazing variety of shapes, but still unmistakably windows. Then, assured of so much integrity of character, you looked to see the roof covering the house, and instead-like the eggs in a Chinese juggler's fingers, that are turned in a jiffy into a growing plant—behold the roof miraculously324 transformed into a garden, or lost in a rampart, or, with quite shameless effrontery325, playing deserter, and serving as the basement of another and still fairer dwelling326. That was a sample of the way all things played you the trick of surprise on this hill. Stairways began on the cobbles of the streets, only to lose themselves in a side wall; a turn on the ramparts would land you straight into the privacy of a St. Michelese interior, with an entire household, perchance, at the mercy of your eye, taken at the mean disadvantage of morning dishabille. As for doors that flew open where you looked to find a bastion; or a school—house that flung all the Michelese voyous over the tops of the ramparts at play-time; or of fishwives that sprung, as full-armed in their kit80 as Minerva from her sire's brows, from the very forehead of fortified places; or of beds and settees and wardrobes (surely no Michelese has ever been able, successfully, to maintain in secret the ghost of a family skeleton!) into which you were innocently precipitated327 on your way to discover the minutest of all cemeteries—these were all commonplace occurrences once your foot was set on this Hill of Surprises.
There are two roads that lead one to the noble mass of buildings crowning the hill. One may choose the narrow street with its moss-grown steps, its curves, and turns; or one may have the broader path along the ramparts, with its glorious outlook over land and sea. Whichever approach one chooses, one passes at last beneath the great doors of the Barbican.
Three times did the vision of St. Michel appear to Saint Aubert, in his dream, commanding the latter to erect277 a church on the heights of Mont St. Michel to his honor. How many a time must the modern pilgrim traverse the stupendous mass that has grown out of that command before he is quite certain that the splendor of Mont St. Michel is real, and not a part of a dream! Whether one enters through the dark magnificence of the great portals of the Chatelet; whether one mounts the fortified stairway, passing into the Salle des Gardes, passing onward328 from dungeon7 to fortified bridge, to gain the abbatial residence; whether one leaves the vaulted329 splendor of oratories330 for aerial passage-ways, only to emerge beneath the majestic331 roof of the Cathedral—that marvel332 of the early Norman, ending in the Gothic choir of the fifteenth century; or, as one penetrates333 into the gloom of the mighty334 dungeons where heroes and the brothers of kings, and saints and scientists have died their long death—as one gropes through the black night of the Crypt, where a faint, mysterious glint of light falls aslant the mystical face of the Black Virgin16; as one climbs to the light beneath the ogive arches of the Aum?nerie, through the wide-lit aisles of the Salle des Chevaliers, past the slender Gothic columns of the Refectory, up at last to the crowning glory of all the glories of La Merveille, to the exquisitely335 beautiful colonnades336 of the open Cloister8 the impressions and emotions excited by these ecclesiastical and military masterpieces are ever the same, however many times one may pass them in review. A charm, indefinable, but replete337 with subtle attractions, lurks338 in every one of these dungeons. The great halls have a power to make one retraverse their space, I have yet to find under other vaulted chambers339. The grass that is set, like a green jewel, in the arabesques341 of the Cloister, is a bit of greensward the feet press with a different tread to that which skips lightly over other strips of turf. And the world, that one looks out upon through prison bars, that is so gloriously arched in the arm of a flying buttress, or that lies prone342 at your feet from the dizzy heights of the rock clefts, is not the world in which you, daily, do your petty stretch of toil300, in which you laugh and ache, sorrow, sigh, and go down to your grave in. The secret of this deep attraction may lie in the fact of one's being in a world that is built on a height. Much, doubtless, of the charm lies, also, in the reminders343 of all the human life that, since the early dawn of history, has peopled this hill. One has the sense of living at tremendously high mental pressure; of impressions, emotions, sensations crowding upon the mind; of one's whole meagre outfit344 of memory, of poetic345 equipment, and of imaginative furnishing, being unequal to the demand made by even the most hurried tour of the great buildings, or the most flitting review of the noble massing of the clouds and the hilly seas.
The very emptiness and desolation of all the buildings on the hill help to accentuate346 their splendor. The stage is magnificently set; the curtain, even, is lifted. One waits for the coming on of kingly shapes, for the pomp of trumpets347, for the pattering of a mighty host. But, behold, all is still. And one sits and sees only a shadowy company pass and repass across that glorious mise-en-scène. For, in a certain sense, I know no other mediaeval mass of buildings as peopled as are these. The dead shapes seem to fill the vast halls. The Salle des Chevaliers is crowded, daily, with a brilliant gathering348 of knights349, who sweep the trains of their white damask mantles350, edged with ermine, over the dulled marble of the floor; two by two they enter the hall; the golden shells on their mantles make the eyes blink, as the groups gather about the great chimneys, or wander through the column-broken space. Behind this dazzling cortège, up the steep steps of the narrow street, swarm other groups—the mediaeval pilgrim host that rushes into the cathedral aisles, and that climbs the ramparts to watch the stately procession as it makes its way toward the church portals. There are still other figures that fill every empty niche and deserted351 watch-tower. Through the lancet windows of the abbatial gateways the yeomanry of the vassal352 villages are peering; it is the weary time of the Hundred Years' War, and all France is watching, through sentry353 windows, for the approach of her dread354 enemy. On the shifting sands below, as on brass355, how indelibly fixed are the names of the hundred and twenty-nine knights whose courage drove, step by step, over that treacherous356 surface, the English invaders357 back to their island strongholds. Will you have a less stormy and belligerent358 company to people the hill? In the quieter days of the fourteenth century, on any bright afternoon, you could have sat beside some friendly artist-monk, and watched him color and embellish359 those wondrous360 missals that made the manuscripts of the Brothers famous throughout France. Earlier yet, in those naive361 centuries, Robert de Torigny, that "bouche des Papes," would doubtless have discoursed362 to you on any subject dear to this "counsellor of kings"—on books, or architecture, or the science of fortifications, or on the theology of Lanfranc; from the helmeted locks of Rollon to the veiled tresses of the lovely Tiphaine Raguenel, Duguesclin's wife; from the ghastly rat-eaten body of the Dutch journalist, who offended that tyrant363 King, Louis XIV., to the Revolutionary heroes, as pitilessly doomed364 to an odious115 death under the gentle Louis Philippe—there is no shape or figure in French history which cannot be summoned at will to refill either a dungeon or a palace chamber340 at Mont St. Michel.
Even in these, our modern days, one finds strange relics365 of past fashions in thought and opinion. The various political, religious, and ethical366 forms of belief to be met with in a fortnight's sojourn on the hill, give one a sense of having passed in review a very complete gallery of ancient and modern portraits of men's minds. In time one learns to traverse even a dozen or more centuries with ease. To be in the dawn of the eleventh century in the morning; at high noon to be in the flood-tide of the fifteenth; and, as the sun dipped, to hear the last word of our own dying century—such were the flights across the abysmal367 depths of time Charm and I took again and again.
One of our chosen haunts was in a certain watch-tower. From its top wall, the loveliest prospect368 of Mont St. Michel was to be enjoyed. Day after day and sunset after sunset, we sat out the hours there. Again and again the world, as it passed, came and took its seat beside us. Pilgrims of the devout and ardent369 type would stop, perchance, would proffer a preliminary greeting, would next take their seat along the parapet, and, quite unconsciously, would end by sitting for their portrait. One such sitter, I remember, was clad in carmine370 crepe shawl; she was bonneted371 in the shape of a long-ago decade. She had climbed the hill in the morning before dawn, she said; she had knelt in prayer as the sun rose. For hers was a pilgrimage made in fulfilment of a vow372. St. Michel had granted her wish, and she in return had brought her prayers to his shrine.
"Ah, mesdames! how good is God! How greatly He rewards a little self-sacrifice. Figure to yourselves the Mont in the early mists, with the sun rising out of the sea and the hills. I was on my knees, up there. I had eaten nothing since yesterday at noon. I was full of the Holy Ghost. When the sun broke at last, it was God Himself in all His glory come down to earth! The whole earth seemed to be listening—prêtait l'oreille—and with the great stillness, and the sea, and the light breaking everywhere, it was as if I were being taken straight up into Paradise. Saint Michel himself must have been supporting me."
The carmine crepe shawl covered a poet, you see, as well as a devotee.
Up yonder, in the little shops and stalls tucked away within the walls of the Barbican, a lively traffic, for many a century now, has been going on in relics and plombs de pèlerinage. Some of these mediaeval impressions have been unearthed373 in strange localities, in the bed of the Seine, as far away as Paris. Rude and archaic374 are many of these early essays in the sculptor's art. But they preserve for us, in quaint211 intensity375, the fervor of adoration which possessed376 that earlier, more devout time and period. On the mind of this nineteenth century pilgrim, the same lovely old forms of belief and superstition377 were imprinted378 as are still to be seen in some of those winged figures of St. Michel, with feet securely set on the back of the terrible dragon, staring, with triumphant99 gaze, through stony379 or leaden eyes.
On the evening of the pilgrimage our friend, the Parisian, joined us on our high perch91. The Mont seemed strangely quiet after the noise and confusion the peasants had brought in their train. The Parisian, like ourselves, had been glad to escape into the upper heights of the wide air, after the bustle380 and hurry of the day at our inn.
"You permit me, mesdames?" He had lighted his after-dinner cigar; he went on puffing, having gained our consent. He curled a leg comfortably about the railings of a low bridge connecting a house that sprang out of a rock, with the rampart. Below, there was a clean drop of a few hundred feet, more or less. In spite of the glories of a spectacular sunset, yielding ceaseless changes and transformations381 of cloud and sea tones, the words of Madame Poulard alone had power to possess our companion. She had uttered her protest against the pilgrimage, as she had swept the Parisian's pousse-café from his elbow. He took up the conversation where it had been dropped.
"It is amusing to hear Madame Poulard talk of the priests stopping the pilgrimages! The priests? Why, that's all they have left them to live upon now. These peasants' are the only pockets in which they can fumble382 nowadays."
"All the same, one can't help being grateful to those peasants," retorted Charm. "They are the only creatures who have made these things seem to have any meaning. How dead it all seems! The abbey, the cloisters, the old prisons, the fortifications, it is like wandering through a splendid tomb!
"Yes, as the curé said yesterday, 'l'ame n'y est plus,'—since the priests have been dislodged, it is the house of the dead."
"The priests"—the Parisian snorted at the very sound of the word—"they have only themselves to blame. They would have been here still, if they had not so abused their power."
"How did they abuse it?" Charm asked.
"In every possible way. I am, myself, not of the country. But my brother was stationed here for some years, when the Mont was garrisoned383. The priests were in full possession then, and they conducted a lively commerce, mademoiselle. The Mont was turned into a show—to see it or any part of it, everyone had to pay toll384. On the great fête-days, when St. Michel wore his crown, the gold ran like water into the monks385' treasury386. It was still then a fashionable religious fad387 to have a mass said for one's dead, out here among the clouds and the sea. Well, try to imagine fifty masses all dumped on the altar together; that is, one mass would be scrambled388 through, no names would be mentioned, no one save le bon Dieu himself knew for whom it was being said; but fifty or more believed they had bought it, since they had paid for it. And the priests laughed in their sleeves, and then sat down, comfortably, to count the gold. Ah, mesdames, those were, literally389, the golden days of the priesthood! What with the pilgrimages, and the sale of relics, and les benefices—together with the charges for seeing the wonders of the Mont—what a trade they did! It is only the Jews, who, in their turn, now own us, up in Paris, who can equal the priests as commercial geniuses!" And our pessimistic Parisian, during the next half-hour, gave us a prophetic picture of the approaching ruin of France, brought about by the genius for plunder319 and organization that is given to the sons of Moses.
Following the Parisian, a figure, bent390 and twisted, opened a door in a side-wall, and took his seat beside us. One became used, in time, to these sudden appearances; to vanish down a chimney, or to emerge from the womb of a rock, or to come up from the bowels391 of what earth there was to be found—all such exits and entrances became as commonplace as all the other extraordinary phases of one's life on the hill. This particular shape had emerged from a hut, carved, literally, out of the side of the rock; but, for a hut, it was amazingly snug—as we could see for ourselves; for the venerable shape hospitably392 opened the low wooden door, that we might see how much of a home could be made out of the side of a rock. Only, when one had been used to a guard-room, and to great and little dungeons, and to a rattling393 of keys along dark corridors, a hut, and the blaze of the noon sun, were trying things to endure, as the shape, with a shrug, gave us to understand.
"You see, mesdames, I was jailor here, years ago, when all La Merveille was a prison. Ah! those were great days for the Mont! There were soldiers and officers who came up to look at the soldiers, and the soldiers—it was their business to look after the prisoners. The Emperor himself came here once—I saw him. What a sight!—Dieu! all the monks and priests and nuns394, and the archbishop himself were out. What banners and crosses and flags! The cannon395 was like a great thunder—and the grève was red with soldiers. Ah, those were days! Dieu—why couldn't the republic have continued those glories—ces gloires? Aujourd'hui nous ne sommes que des morts—instead of prisoners to handle—to watch and work, like so many good machines there is only the dike yonder to keep in repair! What changes—mon Dieu! what changes!" And the shape wrung396 his hands. It was, in truth, a touching spectacle of grief for a good old past.
An old priest, with equally saddened vision, once came to take his seat, quite easily and naturally, beside us, on our favorite perch. He was one of the little band of priests who had remained faithful to the Mont after the government had dispersed397 his brothers—after the monastery had been broken up. He and his four or five companions had taken refuge in a small house, close by the cemetery398; it was they who conducted the services in the little parish church; who had gathered the treasures still grouped together in that little interior—the throne of St. Michel, with its blue draperies and the golden fleur-de-lis, the floating banners and the shields of the Knights of St. Michel, the relics, and wondrous bits of carving399 rescued from the splendors of the cathedral.
"Ah, mesdames—que voulez-vous?" was the old priest's broken chant; he was bewailing the woes400 that had come to his order, to religion, to France. "What will you have? The history of nations repeats itself, as we all know. We, of our day, are fallen on evil times; it is the reign185 of image-breakers—nothing is sacred, except money."
"France has worn herself out. She is like an old man, the hero of many battles, who cares only for his easy chair and his slippers401. She does not care about the children who are throwing stones at the windows. She likes to snooze, in the sun, and count her money-bags. France is too old to care about religion, or the future—she is thinking how best to be comfortable—here in this world, when she has rheumatism402 and a cramp403 in the stomach!" And the old priest wrapped his own soutane about his lean knees, suiting his gesture to his inward convictions.
Was the priest's summary the last word of truth about modern France? On the sands that lay below at our feet, we read a different answer.
The skies were still brilliantly lighted. The actual twilight404 had not come yet, with its long, deep glow, a passion of color that had a longer life up here on the heights than when seen from a lower level. This twilight hour was always a prolonged moment of transfiguration for the Mont.
The very last evening of our stay, we chose this as the loveliest light in which to see the last of the hill. On that evening, I remember, the reds and saffrons in the sky were of an astonishing richness. The sea wall, the bastions, the faces of the great rocks, the yellow broom that sprang from the clefts therein, were dyed as in a carmine bath. In that mighty glow of color, all things took on something of their old, their stupendous splendor. The giant walls were paved with brightness. The town, climbing the hill, assumed the proportions of a mighty citadel; the forest tree-tops were prismatic, emerald balls flung beneath the illumined Merveille; and the Cathedral was set in a daffodil frame; its aerial escalier de dentelle, like Jacob's ladder, led one easily heavenward. The circling birds, in the lace-work of the spiral finials, sang their night songs, as the glow in the sky changed, softened405, deepened.
This was the world that was in the west.
Toward the east, on the flat surface of the sands, this world cast a strange and wondrous shadow. Jagged rocks, a pyramidal city, a Gothic cathedral in mid-air—behold the rugged406 outlines of Mont St. Michel carving their giant features on the shifting, sensitive surface of the mirroring sands.
In the little pools and the trickling407 rivers, the fishermen—from this height, Liliputians grappling with Liliputian meshes—were setting their nets for the night. Across the river-beds, peasant women and fishwives, with bared legs and baskets clasped to their bending backs, appeared and disappeared—shapes that emerged into the light only to vanish into the gulf408 of the night.
In was in these pictures that we read our answer.
Like Mont St. Michel, so has France carried into the heights of history her glory and her power. On every century, she, like this world in miniature, has also cast her shadow, dwarfing409 some, illuminating410 others. And, as on those distant sands the toiling411 shapes of the fishermen are to be seen, early and late, in summer and winter, so can France point to her people, whose industry and amazing talent for toil have made her, and maintain her, great.
Some of these things we have learned, since, in Normandy Inns, we have sat at meat with her peasants, and have grown to be friends with her fishwives.
The End
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1
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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crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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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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aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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dungeons
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| n.地牢( dungeon的名词复数 ) | |
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dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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gateways
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| n.网关( gateway的名词复数 )；门径；方法；大门口 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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12
buttress
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| n.支撑物；v.支持 | |
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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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14
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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17
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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18
chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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20
taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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21
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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22
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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23
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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24
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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25
prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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26
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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27
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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28
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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29
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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30
blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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31
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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32
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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33
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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34
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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35
swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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36
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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37
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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38
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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39
poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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40
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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41
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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42
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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43
microscopic
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| adj.微小的，细微的，极小的，显微的 | |
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44
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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45
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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46
aslant
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| adv.倾斜地；adj.斜的 | |
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47
slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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48
inspections
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| n.检查( inspection的名词复数 )；检验；视察；检阅 | |
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49
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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50
splendors
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| n.华丽( splendor的名词复数 )；壮丽；光辉；显赫 | |
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51
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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52
versatile
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| adj.通用的，万用的；多才多艺的，多方面的 | |
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53
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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54
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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55
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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56
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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57
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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58
nuptial
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| adj.婚姻的，婚礼的 | |
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59
depleted
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| adj. 枯竭的, 废弃的 动词deplete的过去式和过去分词 | |
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60
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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61
locusts
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| n.蝗虫( locust的名词复数 )；贪吃的人；破坏者；槐树 | |
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62
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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63
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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64
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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65
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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66
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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67
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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68
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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69
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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71
desecrated
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| 毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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73
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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74
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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75
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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76
gauche
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| adj.笨拙的，粗鲁的 | |
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77
forefingers
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| n.食指( forefinger的名词复数 ) | |
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78
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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79
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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80
kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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81
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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82
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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83
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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84
dike
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| n.堤，沟；v.开沟排水 | |
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85
lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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86
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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87
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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88
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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89
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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90
rosier
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| Rosieresite | |
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91
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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92
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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93
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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95
stoutest
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| 粗壮的( stout的最高级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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96
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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97
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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98
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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99
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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100
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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101
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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102
exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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103
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
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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105
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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106
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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107
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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108
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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109
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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110
famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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111
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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112
fluted
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| a.有凹槽的 | |
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113
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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114
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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115
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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116
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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117
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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118
cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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119
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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120
scurrying
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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121
scampering
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的现在分词 ) | |
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122
luscious
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| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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123
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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124
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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125
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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126
apotheosis
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| n.神圣之理想；美化；颂扬 | |
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127
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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128
sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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129
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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130
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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131
interspersed
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| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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132
raisins
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| n.葡萄干( raisin的名词复数 ) | |
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133
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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134
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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135
prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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136
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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137
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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138
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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139
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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140
hordes
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| n.移动着的一大群( horde的名词复数 )；部落 | |
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141
provincials
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| n.首都以外的人，地区居民( provincial的名词复数 ) | |
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142
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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143
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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144
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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145
improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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146
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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147
proffer
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| v.献出，赠送；n.提议，建议 | |
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148
gravy
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| n.肉汁；轻易得来的钱，外快 | |
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149
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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150
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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151
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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152
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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153
fixtures
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| （房屋等的）固定装置( fixture的名词复数 )； 如（浴盆、抽水马桶）； 固定在某位置的人或物； （定期定点举行的）体育活动 | |
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154
fixture
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| n.固定设备；预定日期；比赛时间；定期存款 | |
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155
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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156
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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157
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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158
scowls
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| 不悦之色，怒容( scowl的名词复数 ) | |
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159
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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160
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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161
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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162
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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163
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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164
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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165
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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166
flaunt
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| vt.夸耀，夸饰 | |
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167
barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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168
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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169
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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170
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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171
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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172
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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173
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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174
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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175
wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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176
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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177
illusive
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| adj.迷惑人的，错觉的 | |
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178
bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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179
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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180
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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181
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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182
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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183
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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184
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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185
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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186
stouter
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| 粗壮的( stout的比较级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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187
truculent
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| adj.野蛮的，粗野的 | |
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188
plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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189
punctuated
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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190
moles
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| 防波堤( mole的名词复数 )； 鼹鼠； 痣； 间谍 | |
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191
sprouted
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| v.发芽( sprout的过去式和过去分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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192
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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193
fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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194
importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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195
lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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196
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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197
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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198
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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199
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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200
sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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201
discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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202
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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203
assenting
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| 同意，赞成( assent的现在分词 ) | |
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204
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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205
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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206
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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207
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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208
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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209
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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210
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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211
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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212
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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213
crunched
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的过去式和过去分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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214
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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215
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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216
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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217
plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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218
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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219
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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220
knotty
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| adj.有结的，多节的，多瘤的，棘手的 | |
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221
grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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222
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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223
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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224
gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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225
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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226
maidenhood
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| n. 处女性, 处女时代 | |
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227
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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228
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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229
hovers
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| 鸟( hover的第三人称单数 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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230
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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231
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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232
propitiatory
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| adj.劝解的；抚慰的；谋求好感的；哄人息怒的 | |
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233
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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234
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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235
deceptions
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| 欺骗( deception的名词复数 )； 骗术，诡计 | |
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236
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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237
recipients
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| adj.接受的；受领的；容纳的；愿意接受的n.收件人；接受者；受领者；接受器 | |
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238
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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239
sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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240
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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241
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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242
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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243
wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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244
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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245
stilts
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| n.（支撑建筑物高出地面或水面的）桩子，支柱( stilt的名词复数 )；高跷 | |
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246
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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247
deluging
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| v.使淹没( deluge的现在分词 )；淹没；被洪水般涌来的事物所淹没；穷于应付 | |
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248
barons
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| 男爵( baron的名词复数 )； 巨头； 大王； 大亨 | |
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249
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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250
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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251
hoods
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| n.兜帽( hood的名词复数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩v.兜帽( hood的第三人称单数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩 | |
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252
unpacking
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| n.取出货物，拆包[箱]v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的现在分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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253
utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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254
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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255
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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256
decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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257
plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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258
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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259
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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260
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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261
dented
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| v.使产生凹痕( dent的过去式和过去分词 )；损害；伤害；挫伤（信心、名誉等） | |
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262
bead
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| n.念珠；(pl.)珠子项链；水珠 | |
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263
hooped
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| adj.以环作装饰的；带横纹的；带有环的 | |
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264
earrings
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| n.耳环( earring的名词复数 )；耳坠子 | |
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265
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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266
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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267
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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268
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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269
bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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270
taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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271
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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272
facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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273
clefts
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| n.裂缝( cleft的名词复数 )；裂口；cleave的过去式和过去分词；进退维谷 | |
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274
perilously
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| adv.充满危险地，危机四伏地 | |
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275
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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276
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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277
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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278
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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279
scarlets
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| 鲜红色，猩红色( scarlet的名词复数 ) | |
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280
pennants
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| n.校旗( pennant的名词复数 )；锦标旗；长三角旗；信号旗 | |
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281
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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282
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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283
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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284
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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285
chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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286
bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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287
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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288
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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289
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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290
perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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291
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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292
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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293
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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294
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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295
embroideries
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| 刺绣( embroidery的名词复数 )； 刺绣品； 刺绣法 | |
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296
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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297
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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298
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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299
acrobat
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| n.特技演员，杂技演员 | |
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300
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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301
rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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302
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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303
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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304
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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305
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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306
accordion
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| n.手风琴；adj.可折叠的 | |
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307
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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308
tambourine
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| n.铃鼓，手鼓 | |
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309
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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310
derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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311
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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312
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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313
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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314
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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315
acrobats
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| n.杂技演员( acrobat的名词复数 )；立场观点善变的人，主张、政见等变化无常的人 | |
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316
garbed
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| v.（尤指某类人穿的特定）服装，衣服，制服( garb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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317
ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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318
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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319
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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320
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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321
shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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322
beguiling
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| adj.欺骗的，诱人的v.欺骗( beguile的现在分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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323
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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324
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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325
effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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326
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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327
precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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328
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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329
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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330
oratories
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| n.演讲术( oratory的名词复数 )；（用长词或正式词语的）词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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331
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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332
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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333
penetrates
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| v.穿过( penetrate的第三人称单数 )；刺入；了解；渗透 | |
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334
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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335
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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336
colonnades
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| n.石柱廊( colonnade的名词复数 ) | |
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337
replete
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| adj.饱满的，塞满的；n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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338
lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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339
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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340
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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341
arabesques
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| n.阿拉伯式花饰( arabesque的名词复数 )；错综图饰；阿拉伯图案；阿拉贝斯克芭蕾舞姿（独脚站立，手前伸，另一脚一手向后伸） | |
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342
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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343
reminders
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| n.令人回忆起…的东西( reminder的名词复数 )；提醒…的东西；（告知该做某事的）通知单；提示信 | |
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344
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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345
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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346
accentuate
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| v.着重，强调 | |
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347
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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348
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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349
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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350
mantles
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| vt.&vi.覆盖（mantle的第三人称单数形式） | |
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351
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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352
vassal
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| n.附庸的；属下；adj.奴仆的 | |
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353
sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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354
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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355
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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356
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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357
invaders
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| 入侵者，侵略者，侵入物( invader的名词复数 ) | |
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358
belligerent
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| adj.好战的，挑起战争的；n.交战国，交战者 | |
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359
embellish
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| v.装饰，布置；给…添加细节，润饰 | |
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360
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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361
naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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362
discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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363
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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364
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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365
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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366
ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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367
abysmal
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| adj.无底的，深不可测的，极深的；糟透的，极坏的；完全的 | |
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368
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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369
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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370
carmine
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| n.深红色，洋红色 | |
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371
bonneted
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| 发动机前置的 | |
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372
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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373
unearthed
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| 出土的（考古） | |
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374
archaic
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| adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的，已不通用的 | |
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375
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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376
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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377
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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378
imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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379
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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380
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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381
transformations
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| n.变化( transformation的名词复数 )；转换；转换；变换 | |
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382
fumble
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| vi.笨拙地用手摸、弄、接等，摸索 | |
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383
garrisoned
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| 卫戍部队守备( garrison的过去式和过去分词 )； 派部队驻防 | |
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384
toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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385
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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386
treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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387
fad
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| n.时尚；一时流行的狂热；一时的爱好 | |
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388
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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389
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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390
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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391
bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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392
hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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393
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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394
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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395
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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396
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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397
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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398
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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399
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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400
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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401
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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402
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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403
cramp
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| n.痉挛；[pl.](腹)绞痛；vt.限制，束缚 | |
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404
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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405
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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406
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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407
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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408
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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409
dwarfing
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| n.矮化病 | |
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410
illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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411
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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