IN their precise tracings-out and subtile causations, the strongest and fieriest1 emotions of life defy all analytical2 insight. We see the cloud, and feel its bolt; but meteorology only idly essays a critical scrutiny3 as to how that cloud became charged, and how this bolt so stuns4. The metaphysical writers confess, that the most impressive, sudden, and overwhelming event, as well as the minutest, is but the product of an infinite series of infinitely6 involved and untraceable foregoing occurrences. Just so with every motion of the heart. Why this cheek kindles7 with a noble enthusiasm; why that lip curls in scorn; these are things not wholly imputable8 to the immediate9 apparent cause, which is only one link in the chain; but to a long line of dependencies whose further part is lost in the mid-regions of the impalpable air.
Idle then would it be to attempt by any winding10 way so to penetrate11 into the heart, and memory, and inmost life, and nature of Pierre, as to show why it was that a piece of intelligence which, in the natural course of things, many amiable12 gentlemen, both young and old, have been known to receive with a momentary13 feeling of surprise, and then a little curiosity to know more, and at last an entire unconcern; idle would it be, to attempt to show how to Pierre it rolled down on his soul like melted lava14, and left so deep a deposit of desolation, that all his subsequent endeavors never restored the original temples to the soil, nor all his culture completely revived its buried bloom.
But some random16 hints may suffice to deprive a little of its strangeness, that tumultuous mood, into which so small a note had thrown him.
There had long stood a shrine17 in the fresh-foliaged heart of Pierre, up to which he ascended18 by many tableted steps of remembrance; and around which annually19 he had hung fresh wreaths of a sweet and holy affection. Made one green bower20 of at last, by such successive votive offerings of his being; this shrine seemed, and was indeed, a place for the celebration of a chastened joy, rather than for any melancholy21 rites22. But though thus mantled23, and tangled25 with garlands, this shrine was of marble—a niched pillar, deemed solid and eternal, and from whose top radiated all those innumerable sculptured scrolls27 and branches, which supported the entire one-pillared temple of his moral life; as in some beautiful gothic oratories28, one central pillar, trunk-like, upholds the roof. In this shrine, in this niche26 of this pillar, stood the perfect marble form of his departed father; without blemish29, unclouded, snow-white, and serene30; Pierre's fond personification of perfect human goodness and virtue31. Before this shrine, Pierre poured out the fullness of all young life's most reverential thoughts and beliefs. Not to God had Pierre ever gone in his heart, unless by ascending33 the steps of that shrine, and so making it the vestibule of his abstractest religion.
Blessed and glorified34 in his tomb beyond Prince Mausolus is that mortal sire, who, after an honorable, pure course of life, dies, and is buried, as in a choice fountain, in the filial breast of a tender-hearted and intellectually appreciative35 child. For at that period, the Solomonic insights have not poured their turbid36 tributaries37 into the pure-flowing well of the childish life. Rare preservative38 virtue, too, have those heavenly waters. Thrown into that fountain, all sweet recollections become marbleized; so that things which in themselves were evanescent, thus became unchangeable and eternal. So, some rare waters in Derbyshire will petrify40 birds'-nests. But if fate preserves the father to a later time, too often the filial obsequies are less profound; the canonization less ethereal. The eye-expanded boy perceives, or vaguely41 thinks he perceives, slight specks42 and flaws in the character he once so wholly reverenced43.
When Pierre was twelve years old, his father had died, leaving behind him, in the general voice of the world, a marked reputation as a gentleman and a Christian44; in the heart of his wife, a green memory of many healthy days of unclouded and joyful45 wedded46 life, and in the inmost soul of Pierre, the impression of a bodily form of rare manly47 beauty and benignity48, only rivaled by the supposed perfect mould in which his virtuous49 heart had been cast. Of pensive50 evenings, by the wide winter fire, or in summer, in the southern piazza51, when that mystical night-silence so peculiar52 to the country would summon up in the minds of Pierre and his mother, long trains of the images of the past; leading all that spiritual procession, majestically53 and holily walked the venerated54 form of the departed husband and father. Then their talk would be reminiscent and serious, but sweet; and again, and again, still deep and deeper, was stamped in Pierre's soul the cherished conceit55, that his virtuous father, so beautiful on earth, was now uncorruptibly sainted in heaven. So choicely, and in some degree, secludedly nurtured56, Pierre, though now arrived at the age of nineteen, had never yet become so thoroughly58 initiated59 into that darker, though truer aspect of things, which an entire residence in the city from the earliest period of life, almost inevitably60 engraves61 upon the mind of any keenly observant and reflective youth of Pierre's present years. So that up to this period, in his breast, all remained as it had been; and to Pierre, his father's shrine seemed spotless, and still new as the marble of the tomb of him of Arimathea.
Judge, then, how all-desolating and withering62 the blast, that for Pierre, in one night, stripped his holiest shrine of all over-laid bloom, and buried the mild statue of the saint beneath the prostrated63 ruins of the soul's temple itself.
II.
AS the vine flourishes, and the grape empurples close up to the very walls and muzzles64 of cannoned65 Ehrenbreitstein; so do the sweetest joys of life grow in the very jaws66 of its perils67.
But is life, indeed, a thing for all infidel levities68, and we, its misdeemed beneficiaries, so utterly69 fools and infatuate, that what we take to be our strongest tower of delight, only stands at the caprice of the minutest event—the falling of a leaf, the hearing of a voice, or the receipt of one little bit of paper scratched over with a few small characters by a sharpened feather? Are we so entirely70 insecure, that that casket, wherein we have placed our holiest and most final joy, and which we have secured by a lock of infinite deftness71; can that casket be picked and desecrated72 at the merest stranger's touch, when we think that we alone hold the only and chosen key?
Pierre! thou art foolish; rebuild—no, not that, for thy shrine still stands; it stands, Pierre, firmly stands; smellest thou not its yet undeparted, embowering bloom? Such a note as thine can be easily enough written, Pierre; impostors are not unknown in this curious world; or the brisk novelist, Pierre, will write thee fifty such notes, and so steal gushing74 tears from his reader's eyes; even as thy note so strangely made thine own manly eyes so arid75; so glazed76, and so arid, Pierre—foolish Pierre!
Oh! mock not the poniarded heart. The stabbed man knows the steel; prate77 not to him that it is only a tickling78 feather. Feels he not the interior gash79? What does this blood on my vesture? and what does this pang80 in my soul?
And here again, not unreasonably81, might invocations go up to those Three Weird82 Ones, that tend Life's loom15. Again we might ask them, What threads were those, oh, ye Weird Ones, that ye wove in the years foregone; that now to Pierre, they so unerringly conduct electric presentiments83, that his woe84 is woe, his father no more a saint, and Isabel a sister indeed?
Ah, fathers and mothers! all the world round, be heedful,—give heed85! Thy little one may not now comprehend the meaning of those words and those signs, by which, in its innocent presence, thou thinkest to disguise the sinister86 thing ye would hint. Not now he knows; not very much even of the externals he consciously remarks; but if, in after-life, Fate puts the chemic key of the cipher87 into his hands; then how swiftly and how wonderfully, he reads all the obscurest and most obliterate88 inscriptions89 he finds in his memory; yea, and rummages90 himself all over, for still hidden writings to read. Oh, darkest lessons of Life have thus been read; all faith in Virtue been murdered, and youth gives itself up to an infidel scorn.
But not thus, altogether, was it now with Pierre; yet so like, in some points, that the above true warning may not misplacedly stand.
His father had died of a fever; and, as is not uncommon91 in such maladies, toward his end, he at intervals92 lowly wandered in his mind. At such times, by unobserved, but subtle arts, the devoted93 family attendants, had restrained his wife from being present at his side. But little Pierre, whose fond, filial love drew him ever to that bed; they heeded94 not innocent little Pierre, when his father was delirious95; and so, one evening, when the shadows intermingled with the curtains; and all the chamber96 was hushed; and Pierre but dimly saw his father's face; and the fire on the hearth97 lay in a broken temple of wonderful coals; then a strange, plaintive98, infinitely pitiable, low voice, stole forth99 from the testered bed; and Pierre heard,—"My daughter! my daughter!"
"He wanders again," said the nurse.
"Dear, dear father!" sobbed100 the child—"thou hast not a daughter, but here is thy own little Pierre."
But again the unregardful voice in the bed was heard; and now in a sudden, pealing101 wail,—"My daughter!—God! God!—my daughter!"
The child snatched the dying man's hand; it faintly grew to his grasp; but on the other side of the bed, the other hand now also emptily lifted itself and emptily caught, as if at some other childish fingers. Then both hands dropped on the sheet; and in the twinkling shadows of the evening little Pierre seemed to see, that while the hand which he held wore a faint, feverish102 flush, the other empty one was ashy white as a leper's.
"It is past," whispered the nurse, "he will wander so no more now till midnight,—that is his wont103." And then, in her heart, she wondered how it was, that so excellent a gentleman, and so thoroughly good a man, should wander so ambiguously in his mind; and trembled to think of that mysterious thing in the soul, which seems to acknowledge no human jurisdiction104, but in spite of the individual's own innocent self, will still dream horrid105 dreams, and mutter unmentionable thoughts; and into Pierre's awe-stricken, childish soul, there entered a kindred, though still more nebulous conceit. But it belonged to the spheres of the impalpable ether; and the child soon threw other and sweeter remembrances over it, and covered it up; and at last, it was blended with all other dim things, and imaginings of dimness; and so, seemed to survive to no real life in Pierre. But though through many long years the henbane showed no leaves in his soul; yet the sunken seed was there: and the first glimpse of Isabel's letter caused it to spring forth, as by magic. Then, again, the long-hushed, plaintive and infinitely pitiable voice was heard,—"My daughter! my daughter!" followed by the compunctious "God! God!" And to Pierre, once again the empty hand lifted itself, and once again the ashy hand fell.
III.
IN the cold courts of justice the dull head demands oaths, and holy writ5 proofs; but in the warm halls of the heart one single, untestified memory's spark shall suffice to enkindle such a blaze of evidence, that all the corners of conviction are as suddenly lighted up as a midnight city by a burning building, which on every side whirls its reddened brands.
In a locked, round-windowed closet connecting with the chamber of Pierre, and whither he had always been wont to go, in those sweetly awful hours, when the spirit crieth to the spirit, Come into solitude106 with me, twin-brother; come away: a secret have I; let me whisper it to thee aside; in this closet, sacred to the Tadmore privacies and repose107 of the sometimes solitary108 Pierre, there hung, by long cords from the cornice, a small portrait in oil, before which Pierre had many a time trancedly stood. Had this painting hung in any annual public exhibition, and in its turn been described in print by the casual glancing critics, they would probably have described it thus, and truthfully: "An impromptu110 portrait of a fine-looking, gay-hearted, youthful gentleman. He is lightly, and, as it were, airily and but grazingly seated in, or rather flittingly tenanting an old-fashioned chair of Malacca. One arm confining his hat and cane111 is loungingly thrown over the back of the chair, while the fingers of the other hand play with his gold watch-seal and key. The free-templed head is sideways turned, with a peculiarly bright, and care-free, morning expression. He seems as if just dropped in for a visit upon some familiar acquaintance. Altogether, the painting is exceedingly clever and cheerful; with a fine, off-handed expression about it. Undoubtedly112 a portrait, and no fancy-piece; and, to hazard a vague conjecture113, by an amateur."
So bright, and so cheerful then; so trim, and so young; so singularly healthful, and handsome; what subtile element could so steep this whole portrait, that, to the wife of the original, it was namelessly unpleasant and repelling114? The mother of Pierre could never abide115 this picture which she had always asserted did signally belie32 her husband. Her fond memories of the departed refused to hang one single wreath around it. It is not he, she would emphatically and almost indignantly exclaim, when more urgently besought116 to reveal the cause for so unreasonable117 a dissent118 from the opinion of nearly all the other connections and relatives of the deceased. But the portrait which she held to do justice to her husband, correctly to convey his features in detail, and more especially their truest, and finest, and noblest combined expression; this portrait was a much larger one, and in the great drawing-room below occupied the most conspicuous119 and honorable place on the wall.
Even to Pierre these two paintings had always seemed strangely dissimilar. And as the larger one had been painted many years after the other, and therefore brought the original pretty nearly within his own childish recollections; therefore, he himself could not but deem it by far the more truthful109 and life-like presentation of his father. So that the mere73 preference of his mother, however strong, was not at all surprising to him, but rather coincided with his own conceit. Yet not for this, must the other portrait be so decidedly rejected. Because, in the first place, there was a difference in time, and some difference of costume to be considered, and the wide difference of the styles of the respective artiste, and the wide difference of those respective, semi-reflected, ideal faces, which, even in the presence of the original, a spiritual artist will rather choose to draw from than from the fleshy face, however brilliant and fine. Moreover, while the larger portrait was that of a middle-aged120, married man, and seemed to possess all the nameless and slightly portly tranquillities, incident to that condition when a felicitous121 one; the smaller portrait painted a brisk, unentangled, young bachelor, gayly ranging up and down in the world; light-hearted, and a very little bladish perhaps; and charged to the lips with the first uncloying morning fullness and freshness of life. Here, certainly, large allowance was to be made in any careful, candid122 estimation of these portraits. To Pierre this conclusion had become well-nigh irresistible123, when he placed side by side two portraits of himself; one taken in his early childhood, a frocked and belted boy of four years old; and the other, a grown youth of sixteen. Except an indestructible, all-surviving something in the eyes and on the temples, Pierre could hardly recognize the loud-laughing boy in the tall, and pensively124 smiling youth. If a few years, then, can have in me made all this difference, why not in my father? thought Pierre.
Besides all this, Pierre considered the history, and, so to speak, the family legend of the smaller painting. In his fifteenth year, it was made a present to him by an old maiden125 aunt, who resided in the city, and who cherished the memory of Pierre's father, with all that wonderful amaranthine devotion which an advanced maiden sister ever feels for the idea of a beloved younger brother, now dead and irrevocably gone. As the only child of that brother, Pierre was an object of the warmest and most extravagant126 attachment127 on the part of this lonely aunt, who seemed to see, transformed into youth once again, the likeness128, and very soul of her brother, in the fair, inheriting brow of Pierre. Though the portrait we speak of was inordinately129 prized by her, yet at length the strict canon of her romantic and imaginative love asserted the portrait to be Pierre's—for Pierre was not only his father's only child, but his namesake—so soon as Pierre should be old enough to value aright so holy and inestimable a treasure. She had accordingly sent it to him, trebly boxed, and finally covered with a water-proof cloth; and it was delivered at Saddle Meadows, by an express, confidential130 messenger, an old gentleman of leisure, once her forlorn, because rejected gallant131, but now her contented132, and chatty neighbor. Henceforth, before a gold-framed and gold-lidded ivory miniature,—a fraternal gift—aunt Dorothea now offered up her morning and her evening rites, to the memory of the noblest and handsomest of brothers. Yet an annual visit to the far closet of Pierre—no slight undertaking133 now for one so stricken in years, and every way infirm—attested the earnestness of that strong sense of duty, that painful renunciation of self, which had induced her voluntarily to part with the precious memorial.
IV.
"Tell me, aunt," the child Pierre had early said to her, long before the portrait became his—"tell me, aunt, how this chair-portrait, as you call it, was painted;—who painted it?—whose chair was this?—have you the chair now?—I don't see it in your room here;—what is papa looking at so strangely?—I should like to know now, what papa was thinking of, then. Do, now, dear aunt, tell me all about this picture, so that when it is mine, as you promise me, I shall know its whole history."
"Sit down, then, and be very still and attentive134, my dear child," said aunt Dorothea; while she a little averted135 her head, and tremulously and inaccurately136 sought her pocket, till little Pierre cried—"Why, aunt, the story of the picture is not in any little book, is it, that you are going to take out and read to me?"
"My handkerchief, my child."
"Why, aunt, here it is, at your elbow; here, on the table; here, aunt; take it, do; Oh, don't tell me any thing about the picture, now; I won't hear it."
"Be still, my darling Pierre," said his aunt, taking the handkerchief, "draw the curtain a little, dearest; the light hurts my eyes. Now, go into the closet, and bring me my dark shawl;—take your time.—There; thank you, Pierre; now sit down again, and I will begin.—The picture was painted long ago, my child; you were not born then."
"Not born?" cried little Pierre.
"Not born," said his aunt.
"Well, go on, aunt; but don't tell me again that once upon a time I was not little Pierre at all, and yet my father was alive. Go on, aunt,—do, do!"
"Why, how nervous you are getting, my child;—Be patient; I am very old, Pierre; and old people never like to be hurried."
"Now, my own dear Aunt Dorothea, do forgive me this once, and go on with your story."
"When your poor father was quite a young man, my child, and was on one of his long autumnal visits to his friends in this city, he was rather intimate at times with a cousin of his, Ralph Winwood, who was about his own age,—a fine youth he was, too, Pierre."
"I never saw him, aunt; pray, where is he now?" interrupted Pierre;—"does he live in the country, now, as mother and I do?"
"Yes, my child; but a far-away, beautiful country, I hope;—he's in heaven, I trust."
"Dead," sighed little Pierre—"go on, aunt."
"Now, cousin Ralph had a great love for painting, my child; and he spent many hours in a room, hung all round with pictures and portraits; and there he had his easel and brushes; and much liked to paint his friends, and hang their faces on his walls; so that when all alone by himself, he yet had plenty of company, who always wore their best expressions to him, and never once ruffled137 him, by ever getting cross or ill-natured, little Pierre. Often, he had besought your father to sit to him; saying, that his silent circle of friends would never be complete, till your father consented to join them. But in those days, my child, your father was always in motion. It was hard for me to get him to stand still, while I tied his cravat138; for he never came to any one but me for that. So he was always putting off, and putting off cousin Ralph. 'Some other time, cousin; not to-day;—to-morrow, perhaps;—or next week;'—and so, at last cousin Ralph began to despair. But I'll catch him yet, cried sly cousin Ralph. So now he said nothing more to your father about the matter of painting him; but every pleasant morning kept his easel and brushes and every thing in readiness; so as to be ready the first moment your father should chance to drop in upon him from his long strolls; for it was now and then your father's wont to pay flying little visits to cousin Ralph in his painting-room.—But, my child, you may draw back the curtain now—it's getting very dim here, seems to me."
"Well, I thought so all along, aunt," said little Pierre, obeying; "but didn't you say the light hurt your eyes."
"But it does not now, little Pierre."
"Well, well; go on, go on, aunt; you can't think how interested I am," said little Pierre, drawing his stool close up to the quilted satin hem39 of his good Aunt Dorothea's dress.
"I will, my child. But first let me tell you, that about this time there arrived in the port, a cabin-full of French emigrants139 of quality;—poor people, Pierre, who were forced to fly from their native land, because of the cruel, blood-shedding times there. But you have read all that in the little history I gave you, a good while ago."
"I know all about it;—the French Revolution," said little Pierre.
"What a famous little scholar you are, my dear child,"—said Aunt Dorothea, faintly smiling—"among those poor, but noble emigrants, there was a beautiful young girl, whose sad fate afterward140 made a great noise in the city, and made many eyes to weep, but in vain, for she never was heard of any more."
"How? how? aunt;—I don't understand;—did she disappear then, aunt?"
"I was a little before my story, child. Yes, she did disappear, and never was heard of again; but that was afterward, some time afterward, my child. I am very sure it was; I could take my oath of that, Pierre."
"Why, dear aunt," said little Pierre, "how earnestly you talk—after what? your voice is getting very strange; do now;—don't talk that way; you frighten me so, aunt."
"Perhaps it is this bad cold I have to-day; it makes my voice a little hoarse141, I fear, Pierre. But I will try and not talk so hoarsely142 again. Well, my child, some time before this beautiful young lady disappeared, indeed it was only shortly after the poor emigrants landed, your father made her acquaintance; and with many other humane143 gentlemen of the city, provided for the wants of the strangers, for they were very poor indeed, having been stripped of every thing, save a little trifling144 jewelry145, which could not go very far. At last, the friends of your father endeavored to dissuade146 him from visiting these people so much; they were fearful that as the young lady was so very beautiful, and a little inclined to be intriguing—so some said—your father might be tempted147 to marry her; which would not have been a wise thing in him; for though the young lady might have been very beautiful, and good-hearted, yet no one on this side the water certainly knew her history; and she was a foreigner; and would not have made so suitable and excellent a match for your father as your dear mother afterward did, my child. But, for myself, I—who always knew your father very well in all his intentions, and he was very confidential with me, too—I, for my part, never credited that he would do so unwise a thing as marry the strange young lady. At any rate, he at last discontinued his visits to the emigrants; and it was after this that the young lady disappeared. Some said that she must have voluntarily but secretly returned into her own country; and others declared that she must have been kidnapped by French emissaries; for, after her disappearance148, rumor149 began to hint that she was of the noblest birth, and some ways allied150 to the royal family; and then, again, there were some who shook their heads darkly, and muttered of drownings, and other dark things; which one always hears hinted when people disappear, and no one can find them. But though your father and many other gentlemen moved heaven and earth to find trace of her, yet, as I said before, my child, she never re-appeared."
"The poor French lady!" sighed little Pierre. "Aunt, I'm afraid she was murdered."
"Poor lady, there is no telling," said his aunt. "But listen, for I am coming to the picture again. Now, at the time your father was so often visiting the emigrants, my child, cousin Ralph was one of those who a little fancied that your father was courting her; but cousin Ralph being a quiet young man, and a scholar, not well acquainted with what is wise, or what is foolish in the great world; cousin Ralph would not have been at all mortified151 had your father really wedded with the refugee young lady. So vainly thinking, as I told you, that your father was courting her, he fancied it would be a very fine thing if he could paint your father as her wooer; that is, paint him just after his coming from his daily visits to the emigrants. So he watched his chance; every thing being ready in his painting-room, as I told you before; and one morning, sure enough, in dropt your father from his walk. But before he came into the room, cousin Ralph had spied him from the window; and when your father entered, cousin Ralph had the sitting-chair ready drawn152 out, back of his easel, but still fronting toward him, and pretended to be very busy painting. He said to your father—'Glad to see you, cousin Pierre; I am just about something here; sit right down there now, and tell me the news; and I'll sally out with you presently. And tell us something of the emigrants, cousin Pierre,' he slyly added—wishing, you see, to get your father's thoughts running that supposed wooing way, so that he might catch some sort of corresponding expression you see, little Pierre."
"I don't know that I precisely153 understand, aunt; but go on, I am so interested; do go on, dear aunt."
"Well, by many little cunning shifts and contrivances, cousin Ralph kept your father there sitting, and sitting in the chair, rattling154 and rattling away, and so self-forgetful too, that he never heeded that all the while sly cousin Ralph was painting and painting just as fast as ever he could; and only making believe laugh at your father's wit; in short, cousin Ralph was stealing his portrait, my child."
"Not stealing it, I hope," said Pierre, "that would be very wicked."
"Well, then, we won't call it stealing, since I am sure that cousin Ralph kept your father all the time off from him, and so, could not have possibly picked his pocket, though indeed, he slyly picked his portrait, so to speak. And if indeed it was stealing, or any thing of that sort; yet seeing how much comfort that portrait has been to me, Pierre, and how much it will yet be to you, I hope; I think we must very heartily155 forgive cousin Ralph, for what he then did."
"Yes, I think we must indeed," chimed in little Pierre, now eagerly eying the very portrait in question, which hung over the mantle24.
"Well, by catching156 your father two or three times more in that way, cousin Ralph at last finished the painting; and when it was all framed, and every way completed, he would have surprised your father by hanging it boldly up in his room among his other portraits, had not your father one morning suddenly come to him—while, indeed, the very picture itself was placed face down on a table and cousin Ralph fixing the cord to it—came to him, and frightened cousin Ralph by quietly saying, that now that he thought of it, it seemed to him that cousin Ralph had been playing tricks with him; but he hoped it was not so. 'What do you mean?' said cousin Ralph, a little flurried. 'You have not been hanging my portrait up here, have you, cousin Ralph?' said your father, glancing along the walls. 'I'm glad I don't see it. It is my whim157, cousin Ralph,—and perhaps it is a very silly one,—but if you have been lately painting my portrait, I want you to destroy it; at any rate, don't show it to any one, keep it out of sight. What's that you have there, cousin Ralph?'
"Cousin Ralph was now more and more fluttered; not knowing what to make—as indeed, to this day, I don't completely myself—of your father's strange manner. But he rallied, and said—'This, cousin Pierre, is a secret portrait I have here; you must be aware that we portrait-painters are sometimes called upon to paint such. I, therefore, can not show it to you, or tell you any thing about it.'
"'Have you been painting my portrait or not, cousin Ralph?' said your father, very suddenly and pointedly158.
"'I have painted nothing that looks as you there look,' said cousin Ralph, evasively, observing in your father's face a fierce-like expression, which he had never seen there before. And more than that, your father could not get from him."
"And what then?" said little Pierre.
"Why not much, my child; only your father never so much as caught one glimpse of that picture; indeed, never knew for certain, whether there was such a painting in the world. Cousin Ralph secretly gave it to me, knowing how tenderly I loved your father; making me solemnly promise never to expose it anywhere where your father could ever see it, or any way hear of it. This promise I faithfully kept; and it was only after your dear father's death, that I hung it in my chamber. There, Pierre, you now have the story of the chair-portrait."
"And a very strange one it is," said Pierre—"and so interesting, I shall never forget it, aunt."
"I hope you never will, my child. Now ring the bell, and we will have a little fruit-cake, and I will take a glass of wine, Pierre;—do you hear, my child?—the bell—ring it. Why, what do you do standing159 there, Pierre?"
"Why didn't papa want to have cousin Ralph paint his picture, aunt?"
"How these children's minds do run!" exclaimed old aunt Dorothea staring at little Pierre in amazement—"That indeed is more than I can tell you, little Pierre. But cousin Ralph had a foolish fancy about it. He used to tell me, that being in your father's room some few days after the last scene I described, he noticed there a very wonderful work on Physiognomy, as they call it, in which the strangest and shadowiest rules were laid down for detecting people's innermost secrets by studying their faces. And so, foolish cousin Ralph always flattered himself, that the reason your father did not want his portrait taken was, because he was secretly in love with the French young lady, and did not want his secret published in a portrait; since the wonderful work on Physiognomy had, as it were, indirectly160 warned him against running that risk. But cousin Ralph being such a retired161 and solitary sort of a youth, he always had such curious whimsies162 about things. For my part, I don't believe your father ever had any such ridiculous ideas on the subject. To be sure, I myself can not tell you why he did not want his picture taken; but when you get to be as old as I am, little Pierre, you will find that every one, even the best of us, at times, is apt to act very queerly and unaccountably; indeed some things we do, we can not entirely explain the reason of, even to ourselves, little Pierre. But you will know all about these strange matters by and by."
"I hope I shall, aunt," said little Pierre—"But, dear aunt, I thought Marten was to bring in some fruit-cake?"
"Ring the bell for him, then, my child."
"Oh! I forgot," said little Pierre, doing her bidding.
By-and-by, while the aunt was sipping163 her wine; and the boy eating his cake, and both their eyes were fixed164 on the portrait in question; little Pierre, pushing his stool nearer the picture exclaimed—"Now, aunt, did papa really look exactly like that? Did you ever see him in that same buff vest, and huge-figured neckcloth? I remember the seal and key, pretty well; and it was only a week ago that I saw mamma take them out of a little locked drawer in her wardrobe—but I don't remember the queer whiskers; nor the buff vest; nor the huge white-figured neckcloth; did you ever see papa in that very neckcloth, aunt?"
"My child, it was I that chose the stuff for that neckcloth; yes, and hemmed165 it for him, and worked P. G. in one corner; but that aint in the picture. It is an excellent likeness, my child, neckcloth and all; as he looked at that time. Why, little Pierre, sometimes I sit here all alone by myself, gazing, and gazing, and gazing at that face, till I begin to think your father is looking at me, and smiling at me, and nodding at me, and saying—Dorothea! Dorothea!"
"How strange," said little Pierre, "I think it begins to look at me now, aunt. Hark! aunt, it's so silent all round in this old-fashioned room, that I think I hear a little jingling166 in the picture, as if the watch-seal was striking against the key—Hark! aunt."
"Bless me, don't talk so strangely, my child."
"I heard mamma say once—but she did not say so to me—that, for her part, she did not like aunt Dorothea's picture; it was not a good likeness, so she said. Why don't mamma like the picture, aunt?"
"My child, you ask very queer questions. If your mamma don't like the picture, it is for a very plain reason. She has a much larger and finer one at home, which she had painted for herself; yes, and paid I don't know how many hundred dollars for it; and that, too, is an excellent likeness, that must be the reason, little Pierre."
And thus the old aunt and the little child ran on; each thinking the other very strange; and both thinking the picture still stranger; and the face in the picture still looked at them frankly167, and cheerfully, as if there was nothing kept concealed168; and yet again, a little ambiguously and mockingly, as if slyly winking169 to some other picture, to mark what a very foolish old sister, and what a very silly little son, were growing so monstrously170 grave and speculative171 about a huge white-figured neckcloth, a buff vest, and a very gentleman-like and amiable countenance172.
And so, after this scene, as usual, one by one, the fleet years ran on; till the little child Pierre had grown up to be the tall Master Pierre, and could call the picture his own; and now, in the privacy of his own little closet, could stand, or lean, or sit before it all day long, if he pleased, and keep thinking, and thinking, and thinking, and thinking, till by-and-by all thoughts were blurred173, and at last there were no thoughts at all.
Before the picture was sent to him, in his fifteenth year, it had been only through the inadvertence of his mother, or rather through a casual passing into a parlor174 by Pierre, that he had any way learned that his mother did not approve of the picture. Because, as then Pierre was still young, and the picture was the picture of his father, and the cherished property of a most excellent, and dearly-beloved, affectionate aunt; therefore the mother, with an intuitive delicacy175, had refrained from knowingly expressing her peculiar opinion in the presence of little Pierre. And this judicious176, though half-unconscious delicacy in the mother, had been perhaps somewhat singularly answered by a like nicety of sentiment in the child; for children of a naturally refined organization, and a gentle nurture57, sometimes possess a wonderful, and often undreamed of, daintiness of propriety177, and thoughtfulness, and forbearance, in matters esteemed178 a little subtile even by their elders, and self-elected betters. The little Pierre never disclosed to his mother that he had, through another person, become aware of her thoughts concerning Aunt Dorothea's portrait; he seemed to possess an intuitive knowledge of the circumstance, that from the difference of their relationship to his father, and for other minute reasons, he could in some things, with the greater propriety, be more inquisitive179 concerning him, with his aunt, than with his mother, especially touching180 the matter of the chair-portrait. And Aunt Dorothea's reasons accounting181 for his mother's distaste, long continued satisfactory, or at least not unsufficiently explanatory.
And when the portrait arrived at the Meadows, it so chanced that his mother was abroad; and so Pierre silently hung it up in his closet; and when after a day or two his mother returned, he said nothing to her about its arrival, being still strangely alive to that certain mild mystery which invested it, and whose sacredness now he was fearful of violating, by provoking any discussion with his mother about Aunt Dorothea's gift, or by permitting himself to be improperly182 curious concerning the reasons of his mother's private and self-reserved opinions of it. But the first time—and it was not long after the arrival of the portrait—that he knew of his mother's having entered his closet; then, when he next saw her, he was prepared to hear what she should voluntarily say about the late addition to its embellishments; but as she omitted all mention of any thing of that sort, he unobtrusively scanned her countenance, to mark whether any little clouding emotion might be discoverable there. But he could discern none. And as all genuine delicacies183 are by their nature accumulative; therefore this reverential, mutual184, but only tacit forbearance of the mother and son, ever after continued uninvaded. And it was another sweet, and sanctified, and sanctifying bond between them. For, whatever some lovers may sometimes say, love does not always abhor185 a secret, as nature is said to abhor a vacuum. Love is built upon secrets, as lovely Venice upon invisible and incorruptible piles in the sea. Love's secrets, being mysteries, ever pertain186 to the transcendent and the infinite; and so they are as airy bridges, by which our further shadows pass over into the regions of the golden mists and exhalations; whence all poetical187, lovely thoughts are engendered188, and drop into us, as though pearls should drop from rainbows.
As time went on, the chasteness189 and pure virginity of this mutual reservation, only served to dress the portrait in sweeter, because still more mysterious attractions; and to fling, as it were, fresh fennel and rosemary around the revered190 memory of the father. Though, indeed, as previously191 recounted, Pierre now and then loved to present to himself for some fanciful solution the penultimate secret of the portrait, in so far, as that involved his mother's distaste; yet the cunning analysis in which such a mental procedure would involve him, never voluntarily transgressed192 that sacred limit, where his mother's peculiar repugnance193 began to shade off into ambiguous considerations, touching any unknown possibilities in the character and early life of the original. Not, that he had altogether forbidden his fancy to range in such fields of speculation194; but all such imaginings must be contributory to that pure, exalted195 idea of his father, which, in his soul, was based upon the known acknowledged facts of his father's life.
V.
IF, when the mind roams up and down in the ever-elastic regions of evanescent invention, any definite form or feature can be assigned to the multitudinous shapes it creates out of the incessant196 dissolvings of its own prior creations; then might we here attempt to hold and define the least shadowy of those reasons, which about the period of adolescence197 we now treat of, more frequently occurred to Pierre, whenever he essayed to account for his mother's remarkable198 distaste for the portrait. Yet will we venture one sketch199.
Yes—sometimes dimly thought Pierre—who knows but cousin Ralph, after all, may have been not so very far from the truth, when he surmised200 that at one time my father did indeed cherish some passing emotion for the beautiful young Frenchwoman. And this portrait being painted at that precise time, and indeed with the precise purpose of perpetuating201 some shadowy testification of the fact in the countenance of the original: therefore, its expression is not congenial, is not familiar, is not altogether agreeable to my mother: because, not only did my father's features never look so to her (since it was afterward that she first became acquainted with him), but also, that certain womanliness of women; that thing I should perhaps call a tender jealousy202, a fastidious vanity, in any other lady, enables her to perceive that the glance of the face in the portrait, is not, in some nameless way, dedicated203 to herself, but to some other and unknown object; and therefore, is she impatient of it, and it is repelling to her; for she must naturally be intolerant of any imputed204 reminiscence in my father, which is not in some way connected with her own recollections of him.
Whereas, the larger and more expansive portrait in the great drawing-room, taken in the prime of life; during the best and rosiest205 days of their wedded union; at the particular desire of my mother; and by a celebrated206 artist of her own election, and costumed after her own taste; and on all hands considered to be, by those who know, a singularly happy likeness at the period; a belief spiritually reinforced by my own dim infantile remembrances; for all these reasons, this drawing-room portrait possesses an inestimable charm to her; there, she indeed beholds208 her husband as he had really appeared to her; she does not vacantly gaze upon an unfamiliar209 phantom210 called up from the distant, and, to her, well-nigh fabulous211 days of my father's bachelor life. But in that other portrait, she sees rehearsed to her fond eyes, the latter tales and legends of his devoted wedded love. Yes, I think now that I plainly see it must be so. And yet, ever new conceits212 come vaporing213 up in me, as I look on the strange chair-portrait: which, though so very much more unfamiliar to me, than it can possibly be to my mother, still sometimes seems to say—Pierre, believe not the drawing-room painting; that is not thy father; or, at least, is not all of thy father. Consider in thy mind, Pierre, whether we two paintings may not make only one. Faithful wives are ever over-fond to a certain imaginary image of their husbands; and faithful widows are ever over-reverential to a certain imagined ghost of that same imagined image, Pierre. Look again, I am thy father as he more truly was. In mature life, the world overlays and varnishes214 us, Pierre; the thousand proprieties215 and polished finenesses and grimaces216 intervene, Pierre; then, we, as it were, abdicate217 ourselves, and take unto us another self, Pierre; in youth we are, Pierre, but in age we seem. Look again. I am thy real father, so much the more truly, as thou thinkest thou recognizest me not, Pierre. To their young children, fathers are not wont to unfold themselves entirely, Pierre. There are a thousand and one odd little youthful peccadilloes218, that we think we may as well not divulge219 to them, Pierre. Consider this strange, ambiguous smile, Pierre; more narrowly regard this mouth. Behold207, what is this too ardent220 and, as it were, unchastened light in these eyes, Pierre? I am thy father, boy. There was once a certain, oh, but too lovely young Frenchwoman, Pierre. Youth is hot, and temptation strong, Pierre; and in the minutest moment momentous221 things are irrevocably done, Pierre; and Time sweeps on, and the thing is not always carried down by its stream, but may be left stranded222 on its bank; away beyond, in the young, green countries, Pierre. Look again. Doth thy mother dislike me for naught223? Consider. Do not all her spontaneous, loving impressions, ever strive to magnify, and spiritualize, and deify, her husband's memory, Pierre? Then why doth she cast despite upon me; and never speak to thee of me; and why dost thou thyself keep silence before her, Pierre? Consider. Is there no little mystery here? Probe a little, Pierre. Never fear, never fear. No matter for thy father now. Look, do I not smile?—yes, and with an unchangeable smile; and thus have I unchangeably smiled for many long years gone by, Pierre. Oh, it is a permanent smile! Thus I smiled to cousin Ralph; and thus in thy dear old Aunt Dorothea's parlor, Pierre; and just so, I smile here to thee, and even thus in thy father's later life, when his body may have been in grief, still—hidden away in Aunt Dorothea's secretary—I thus smiled as before; and just so I'd smile were I now hung up in the deepest dungeon224 of the Spanish Inquisition, Pierre; though suspended in outer darkness, still would I smile with this smile, though then not a soul should be near. Consider; for a smile is the chosen vehicle for all ambiguities225, Pierre. When we would deceive, we smile; when we are hatching any nice little artifice226, Pierre; only just a little gratifying our own sweet little appetites, Pierre; then watch us, and out comes the odd little smile. Once upon a time, there was a lovely young Frenchwoman, Pierre. Have you carefully, and analytically227, and psychologically, and metaphysically, considered her belongings228 and surroundings, and all her incidentals, Pierre? Oh, a strange sort of story, that, thy dear old Aunt Dorothea once told thee, Pierre. I once knew a credulous229 old soul, Pierre. Probe, probe a little—see—there seems one little crack there, Pierre—a wedge, a wedge. Something ever comes of all persistent230 inquiry231; we are not so continually curious for nothing, Pierre; not for nothing, do we so intrigue232 and become wily diplomatists, and glozers with our own minds, Pierre; and afraid of following the Indian trail from the open plain into the dark thickets233, Pierre; but enough; a word to the wise.
Thus sometimes in the mystical, outer quietude of the long country nights; either when the hushed mansion234 was banked round by the thick-fallen December snows, or banked round by the immovable white August moonlight; in the haunted repose of a wide story, tenanted only by himself; and sentineling his own little closet; and standing guard, as it were, before the mystical tent of the picture; and ever watching the strangely concealed lights of the meanings that so mysteriously moved to and fro within; thus sometimes stood Pierre before the portrait of his father, unconsciously throwing himself open to all those ineffable235 hints and ambiguities, and undefined half-suggestions, which now and then people the soul's atmosphere, as thickly as in a soft, steady snow-storm, the snow-flakes people the air. Yet as often starting from these reveries and trances, Pierre would regain236 the assured element of consciously bidden and self-propelled thought; and then in a moment the air all cleared, not a snow-flake descended237, and Pierre, upbraiding238 himself for his self-indulgent infatuation, would promise never again to fall into a midnight revery before the chair-portrait of his father. Nor did the streams of these reveries seem to leave any conscious sediment239 in his mind; they were so light and so rapid, that they rolled their own alluvial240 along; and seemed to leave all Pierre's thought-channels as clean and dry as though never any alluvial stream had rolled there at all.
And so still in his sober, cherishing memories, his father's beatification remained untouched; and all the strangeness of the portrait only served to invest his idea with a fine, legendary241 romance; the essence whereof was that very mystery, which at other times was so subtly and evilly significant.
But now, now!—Isabel's letter read: swift as the first light that slides from the sun, Pierre saw all preceding ambiguities, all mysteries ripped open as if with a keen sword, and forth trooped thickening phantoms242 of an infinite gloom. Now his remotest infantile reminiscences—the wandering mind of his father—the empty hand, and the ashen—the strange story of Aunt Dorothea—the mystical midnight suggestions of the portrait itself; and, above all, his mother's intuitive aversion, all, all overwhelmed him with reciprocal testimonies243.
And now, by irresistible intuitions, all that had been inexplicably244 mysterious to him in the portrait, and all that had been inexplicably familiar in the face, most magically these now coincided; the merriness of the one not inharmonious with the mournfulness of the other, but by some ineffable correlativeness, they reciprocally identified each other, and, as it were, melted into each other, and thus interpenetratingly uniting, presented lineaments of an added supernaturalness.
On all sides, the physical world of solid objects now slidingly displaced itself from around him, and he floated into an ether of visions; and, starting to his feet with clenched245 hands and outstaring eyes at the transfixed face in the air, he ejaculated that wonderful verse from Dante, descriptive of the two mutually absorbing shapes in the Inferno246:
"Ah! how dost thou change,
Agnello! See! thou art not double now,
Nor only one!"
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1
fieriest
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| 燃烧的( fiery的最高级 )； 火似的； 火热的； 激烈的 | |
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analytical
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| adj.分析的；用分析法的 | |
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3
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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4
stuns
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| v.击晕( stun的第三人称单数 )；使大吃一惊；给（某人）以深刻印象；使深深感动 | |
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5
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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6
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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kindles
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的第三人称单数 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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8
imputable
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| adj.可归罪的，可归咎的，可归因的 | |
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9
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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10
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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11
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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12
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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13
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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14
lava
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| n.熔岩，火山岩 | |
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15
loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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16
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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17
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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18
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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annually
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| adv.一年一次，每年 | |
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bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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21
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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22
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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23
mantled
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| 披着斗篷的，覆盖着的 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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25
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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27
scrolls
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| n.（常用于录写正式文件的）纸卷( scroll的名词复数 )；卷轴；涡卷形（装饰）；卷形花纹v.（电脑屏幕上）从上到下移动（资料等），卷页( scroll的第三人称单数 )；（似卷轴般）卷起；（像展开卷轴般地）将文字显示于屏幕 | |
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28
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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blemish
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| v.损害；玷污；瑕疵，缺点 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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32
belie
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| v.掩饰，证明为假 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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turbid
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| adj.混浊的，泥水的，浓的 | |
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37
tributaries
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| n. 支流 | |
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38
preservative
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| n.防腐剂；防腐料；保护料；预防药 | |
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39
hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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40
petrify
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| vt.使发呆；使…变成化石 | |
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41
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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42
specks
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| n.眼镜；斑点，微粒，污点( speck的名词复数 ) | |
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43
reverenced
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| v.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的过去式和过去分词 )；敬礼 | |
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44
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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45
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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46
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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48
benignity
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| n.仁慈 | |
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49
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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50
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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51
piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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52
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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53
majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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54
venerated
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| 敬重（某人或某事物），崇敬( venerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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56
nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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57
nurture
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| n.养育，照顾，教育；滋养，营养品；vt.养育，给与营养物，教养，扶持 | |
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58
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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59
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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60
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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61
engraves
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的第三人称单数 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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62
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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63
prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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64
muzzles
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| 枪口( muzzle的名词复数 )； （防止动物咬人的）口套； （四足动物的）鼻口部； （狗）等凸出的鼻子和口 | |
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65
cannoned
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| vi.与…猛撞（cannon的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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66
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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67
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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68
levities
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| n.欠考虑( levity的名词复数 )；不慎重；轻率；轻浮 | |
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69
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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70
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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71
deftness
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72
desecrated
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| 毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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74
gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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75
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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76
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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77
prate
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| v.瞎扯，胡说 | |
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78
tickling
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| 反馈，回授，自旋挠痒法 | |
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79
gash
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| v.深切，划开；n.(深长的)切(伤)口；裂缝 | |
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80
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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81
unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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82
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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83
presentiments
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| n.（对不祥事物的）预感( presentiment的名词复数 ) | |
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84
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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85
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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86
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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87
cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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88
obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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89
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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90
rummages
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的名词复数 ) | |
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91
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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92
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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93
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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94
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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96
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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97
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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98
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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99
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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100
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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101
pealing
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的现在分词 ) | |
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102
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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103
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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104
jurisdiction
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| n.司法权，审判权，管辖权，控制权 | |
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105
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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106
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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107
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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108
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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109
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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110
impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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111
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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112
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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113
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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114
repelling
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| v.击退( repel的现在分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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115
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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116
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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117
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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118
dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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119
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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120
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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121
felicitous
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| adj.恰当的，巧妙的；n.恰当，贴切 | |
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122
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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123
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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124
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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125
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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126
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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127
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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128
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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129
inordinately
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| adv.无度地，非常地 | |
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130
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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131
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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132
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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133
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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134
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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135
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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136
inaccurately
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| 不精密地，不准确地 | |
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137
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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138
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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139
emigrants
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| n.（从本国移往他国的）移民( emigrant的名词复数 ) | |
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140
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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141
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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142
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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143
humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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144
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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145
jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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146
dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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147
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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148
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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149
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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150
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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151
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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152
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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153
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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154
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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155
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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156
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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157
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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158
pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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159
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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160
indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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161
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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162
whimsies
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| n.怪念头( whimsy的名词复数 )；异想天开；怪脾气；与众不同的幽默感 | |
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163
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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164
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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165
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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166
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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167
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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168
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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169
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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170
monstrously
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171
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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172
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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173
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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174
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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175
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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176
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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177
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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178
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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179
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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180
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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181
accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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182
improperly
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| 不正确地，不适当地 | |
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183
delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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184
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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185
abhor
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| v.憎恶；痛恨 | |
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186
pertain
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| v.(to)附属，从属；关于；有关；适合，相称 | |
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187
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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188
engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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189
chasteness
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| n.贞操，纯洁，简洁 | |
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190
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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191
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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192
transgressed
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| v.超越( transgress的过去式和过去分词 )；越过；违反；违背 | |
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193
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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194
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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195
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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196
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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197
adolescence
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| n.青春期，青少年 | |
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198
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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199
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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200
surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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201
perpetuating
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| perpetuate的现在进行式 | |
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202
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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203
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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204
imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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205
rosiest
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| adj.玫瑰色的( rosy的最高级 )；愉快的；乐观的；一切都称心如意 | |
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206
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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207
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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208
beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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209
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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210
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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211
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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212
conceits
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| 高傲( conceit的名词复数 )； 自以为； 巧妙的词语； 别出心裁的比喻 | |
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213
vaporing
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| n.说大话，吹牛adj.蒸发的，自夸的v.自夸，（使）蒸发( vapor的现在分词 ) | |
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varnishes
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| 清漆的面（尤指木器或金属制品上的）( varnish的名词复数 )； 光泽面； 罩光漆 | |
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215
proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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216
grimaces
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| n.（表蔑视、厌恶等）面部扭曲，鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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217
abdicate
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| v.让位，辞职，放弃 | |
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218
peccadilloes
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| n.轻罪，小过失( peccadillo的名词复数 ) | |
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219
divulge
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| v.泄漏(秘密等)；宣布，公布 | |
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220
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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221
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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222
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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223
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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224
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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225
ambiguities
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| n.歧义( ambiguity的名词复数 )；意义不明确；模棱两可的意思；模棱两可的话 | |
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226
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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227
analytically
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| adv.有分析地，解析地 | |
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228
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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229
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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230
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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231
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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232
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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233
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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234
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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235
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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236
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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237
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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238
upbraiding
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| adj.& n.谴责（的）v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的现在分词 ) | |
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239
sediment
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| n.沉淀，沉渣，沉积(物) | |
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240
alluvial
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| adj.冲积的；淤积的 | |
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241
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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242
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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243
testimonies
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| （法庭上证人的）证词( testimony的名词复数 )； 证明，证据 | |
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244
inexplicably
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| adv.无法说明地，难以理解地，令人难以理解的是 | |
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245
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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246
inferno
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| n.火海；地狱般的场所 | |
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