In the centre of the court, under the blue Italian sky, and with the hundred windows of the vast palace gazing down upon it from four sides, appears a fountain. It brims over from one stone basin to another, or gushes5 from a Naiad’s urn6, or spurts7 its many little jets from the mouths of nameless monsters, which were merely grotesque9 and artificial when Bernini, or whoever was their unnatural10 father, first produced them; but now the patches of moss12, the tufts of grass, the trailing maiden13-hair, and all sorts of verdant14 weeds that thrive in the cracks and crevices15 of moist marble, tell us that Nature takes the fountain back into her great heart, and cherishes it as kindly16 as if it were a woodland spring. And hark, the pleasant murmur17, the gurgle, the plash! You might hear just those tinkling18 sounds from any tiny waterfall in the forest, though here they gain a delicious pathos19 from the stately echoes that reverberate20 their natural language. So the fountain is not altogether glad, after all its three centuries at play!
In one of the angles of the courtyard, a pillared doorway21 gives access to the staircase, with its spacious22 breadth of low marble steps, up which, in former times, have gone the princes and cardinals23 of the great Roman family who built this palace. Or they have come down, with still grander and loftier mien24, on their way to the Vatican or the Quirinal, there to put off their scarlet25 hats in exchange for the triple crown. But, in fine, all these illustrious personages have gone down their hereditary26 staircase for the last time, leaving it to be the thoroughfare of ambassadors, English noblemen, American millionnaires, artists, tradesmen, washerwomen, and people of every degree,—all of whom find such gilded27 and marble-panelled saloons as their pomp and luxury demand, or such homely28 garrets as their necessity can pay for, within this one multifarious abode29. Only, in not a single nook of the palace (built for splendor30, and the accommodation of a vast retinue31, but with no vision of a happy fireside or any mode of domestic enjoyment32) does the humblest or the haughtiest34 occupant find comfort.
Up such a staircase, on the morning after the scene at the sculpture gallery, sprang the light foot of Donatello. He ascended35 from story to story, passing lofty doorways36, set within rich frames of sculptured marble, and climbing unweariedly upward, until the glories of the first piano and the elegance37 of the middle height were exchanged for a sort of Alpine38 region, cold and naked in its aspect. Steps of rough stone, rude wooden balustrades, a brick pavement in the passages, a dingy39 whitewash40 on the walls; these were here the palatial41 features. Finally, he paused before an oaken door, on which was pinned a card, bearing the name of Miriam Schaefer, artist in oils. Here Donatello knocked, and the door immediately fell somewhat ajar; its latch42 having been pulled up by means of a string on the inside. Passing through a little anteroom, he found himself in Miriam’s presence.
“Come in, wild Faun,” she said, “and tell me the latest news from Arcady!”
The artist was not just then at her easel, but was busied with the feminine task of mending a pair of gloves.
There is something extremely pleasant, and even touching,—at least, of very sweet, soft, and winning effect,—in this peculiarity43 of needlework, distinguishing women from men. Our own sex is incapable44 of any such by-play aside from the main business of life; but women—be they of what earthly rank they may, however gifted with intellect or genius, or endowed with awful beauty—have always some little handiwork ready to fill the tiny gap of every vacant moment. A needle is familiar to the fingers of them all. A queen, no doubt, plies45 it on occasion; the woman poet can use it as adroitly46 as her pen; the woman’s eye, that has discovered a new star, turns from its glory to send the polished little instrument gleaming along the hem11 of her kerchief, or to darn a casual fray47 in her dress. And they have greatly the advantage of us in this respect. The slender thread of silk or cotton keeps them united with the small, familiar, gentle interests of life, the continually operating influences of which do so much for the health of the character, and carry off what would otherwise be a dangerous accumulation of morbid48 sensibility. A vast deal of human sympathy runs along this electric line, stretching from the throne to the wicker chair of the humblest seamstress, and keeping high and low in a species of communion with their kindred beings. Methinks it is a token of healthy and gentle characteristics, when women of high thoughts and accomplishments49 love to sew; especially as they are never more at home with their own hearts than while so occupied.
And when the work falls in a woman’s lap, of its own accord, and the needle involuntarily ceases to fly, it is a sign of trouble, quite as trustworthy as the throb50 of the heart itself. This was what happened to Miriam. Even while Donatello stood gazing at her, she seemed to have forgotten his presence, allowing him to drop out of her thoughts, and the torn glove to fall from her idle fingers. Simple as he was, the young man knew by his sympathies that something was amiss.
“Dear lady, you are sad,” said he, drawing close to her.
“It is nothing, Donatello,” she replied, resuming her work; “yes; a little sad, perhaps; but that is not strange for us people of the ordinary world, especially for women. You are of a cheerfuller race, my friend, and know nothing of this disease of sadness. But why do you come into this shadowy room of mine?”
“Why do you make it so shadowy?” asked he.
“We artists purposely exclude sunshine, and all but a partial light,” said Miriam, “because we think it necessary to put ourselves at odds51 with Nature before trying to imitate her. That strikes you very strangely, does it not? But we make very pretty pictures sometimes with our artfully arranged lights and shadows. Amuse yourself with some of mine, Donatello, and by and by I shall be in the mood to begin the portrait we were talking about.”
The room had the customary aspect of a painter’s studio; one of those delightful52 spots that hardly seem to belong to the actual world, but rather to be the outward type of a poet’s haunted imagination, where there are glimpses, sketches53, and half-developed hints of beings and objects grander and more beautiful than we can anywhere find in reality. The windows were closed with shutters55, or deeply curtained, except one, which was partly open to a sunless portion of the sky, admitting only from high upward that partial light which, with its strongly marked contrast of shadow, is the first requisite56 towards seeing objects pictorially57. Pencil-drawings were pinned against the wall or scattered58 on the tables. Unframed canvases turned their backs on the spectator, presenting only a blank to the eye, and churlishly concealing59 whatever riches of scenery or human beauty Miriam’s skill had depicted60 on the other side.
In the obscurest part of the room Donatello was half startled at perceiving duskily a woman with long dark hair, who threw up her arms with a wild gesture of tragic61 despair, and appeared to beckon62 him into the darkness along with her.
“Do not be afraid, Donatello,” said Miriam, smiling to see him peering doubtfully into the mysterious dusk. “She means you no mischief63, nor could perpetrate any if she wished it ever so much. It is a lady of exceedingly pliable64 disposition65; now a heroine of romance, and now a rustic66 maid; yet all for show; being created, indeed, on purpose to wear rich shawls and other garments in a becoming fashion. This is the true end of her being, although she pretends to assume the most varied67 duties and perform many parts in life, while really the poor puppet has nothing on earth to do. Upon my word, I am satirical unawares, and seem to be describing nine women out of ten in the person of my lay-figure. For most purposes she has the advantage of the sisterhood. Would I were like her!”
“How it changes her aspect,” exclaimed Donatello, “to know that she is but a jointed68 figure! When my eyes first fell upon her, I thought her arms moved, as if beckoning69 me to help her in some direful peril70.”
“Are you often troubled with such sinister71 freaks of fancy?” asked Miriam. “I should not have supposed it.”
“To tell you the truth, dearest signorina,” answered the young Italian, “I am apt to be fearful in old, gloomy houses, and in the dark. I love no dark or dusky corners, except it be in a grotto72, or among the thick green leaves of an arbor73, or in some nook of the woods, such as I know many in the neighborhood of my home. Even there, if a stray sunbeam steal in, the shadow is all the better for its cheerful glimmer74.”
“Yes; you are a Faun, you know,” said the fair artist, laughing at the remembrance of the scene of the day before. “But the world is sadly changed nowadays; grievously changed, poor Donatello, since those happy times when your race used to dwell in the Arcadian woods, playing hide and seek with the nymphs in grottoes and nooks of shrubbery. You have reappeared on earth some centuries too late.”
“I do not understand you now,” answered Donatello, looking perplexed75; “only, signorina, I am glad to have my lifetime while you live; and where you are, be it in cities or fields, I would fain be there too.”
“I wonder whether I ought to allow you to speak in this way,” said Miriam, looking thoughtfully at him. “Many young women would think it behooved76 them to be offended. Hilda would never let you speak so, I dare say. But he is a mere8 boy,” she added, aside, “a simple boy, putting his boyish heart to the proof on the first woman whom he chances to meet. If yonder lay-figure had had the luck to meet him first, she would have smitten77 him as deeply as I.”
“Are you angry with me?” asked Donatello dolorously78.
“Not in the least,” answered Miriam, frankly79 giving him her hand. “Pray look over some of these sketches till I have leisure to chat with you a little. I hardly think I am in spirits enough to begin your portrait to-day.”
Donatello was as gentle and docile80 as a pet spaniel; as playful, too, in his general disposition, or saddening with his mistress’s variable mood like that or any other kindly animal which has the faculty81 of bestowing82 its sympathies more completely than men or women can ever do. Accordingly, as Miriam bade him, he tried to turn his attention to a great pile and confusion of pen and ink sketches and pencil drawings which lay tossed together on a table. As it chanced, however, they gave the poor youth little delight.
The first that he took up was a very impressive sketch54, in which the artist had jotted83 down her rough ideas for a picture of Jael driving the nail through the temples of Sisera. It was dashed off with remarkable84 power, and showed a touch or two that were actually lifelike and deathlike, as if Miriam had been standing85 by when Jael gave the first stroke of her murderous hammer, or as if she herself were Jael, and felt irresistibly86 impelled87 to make her bloody88 confession89 in this guise90.
Her first conception of the stern Jewess had evidently been that of perfect womanhood, a lovely form, and a high, heroic face of lofty beauty; but, dissatisfied either with her own work or the terrible story itself, Miriam had added a certain wayward quirk91 of her pencil, which at once converted the heroine into a vulgar murderess. It was evident that a Jael like this would be sure to search Sisera’s pockets as soon as the breath was out of his body.
In another sketch she had attempted the story of Judith, which we see represented by the old masters so often, and in such various styles. Here, too, beginning with a passionate92 and fiery93 conception of the subject in all earnestness, she had given the last touches in utter scorn, as it were, of the feelings which at first took such powerful possession of her hand. The head of Holofernes (which, by the bye, had a pair of twisted mustaches, like those of a certain potentate94 of the day) being fairly cut off, was screwing its eyes upward and twirling its features into a diabolical95 grin of triumphant96 malice97, which it flung right in Judith’s face. On her part, she had the startled aspect that might be conceived of a cook if a calf’s head should sneer98 at her when about to be popped into the dinner-pot.
Over and over again, there was the idea of woman, acting99 the part of a revengeful mischief towards man. It was, indeed, very singular to see how the artist’s imagination seemed to run on these stories of bloodshed, in which woman’s hand was crimsoned100 by the stain; and how, too,—in one form or another, grotesque or sternly sad,—she failed not to bring out the moral, that woman must strike through her own heart to reach a human life, whatever were the motive101 that impelled her.
One of the sketches represented the daughter of Herodias receiving the head of John the Baptist in a charger. The general conception appeared to be taken from Bernardo Luini’s picture, in the Uffizzi Gallery at Florence; but Miriam had imparted to the saint’s face a look of gentle and heavenly reproach, with sad and blessed eyes fixed102 upward at the maiden; by the force of which miraculous103 glance, her whole womanhood was at once awakened104 to love and endless remorse105.
These sketches had a most disagreeable effect on Donatello’s peculiar temperament106. He gave a shudder107; his face assumed a look of trouble, fear, and disgust; he snatched up one sketch after another, as if about to tear it in pieces. Finally, shoving away the pile of drawings, he shrank back from the table and clasped his hands over his eyes.
“What is the matter, Donatello?” asked Miriam, looking up from a letter which she was now writing. “Ah! I did not mean you to see those drawings. They are ugly phantoms108 that stole out of my mind; not things that I created, but things that haunt me. See! here are some trifles that perhaps will please you better.”
She gave him a portfolio109, the sketches in which indicated a happier mood of mind, and one, it is to be hoped, more truly characteristic of the artist. Supposing neither of these classes of subject to show anything of her own individuality, Miriam had evidently a great scope of fancy, and a singular faculty of putting what looked like heart into her productions. The latter sketches were domestic and common scenes, so finely and subtilely idealized that they seemed such as we may see at any moment, and eye, where; while still there was the indefinable something added, or taken away, which makes all the difference between sordid110 life and an earthly paradise. The feeling and sympathy in all of them were deep and true. There was the scene, that comes once in every life, of the lover winning the soft and pure avowal111 of bashful affection from the maiden whose slender form half leans towards his arm, half shrinks from it, we know not which. There was wedded112 affection in its successive stages, represented in a series of delicately conceived designs, touched with a holy fire, that burned from youth to age in those two hearts, and gave one identical beauty to the faces throughout all the changes of feature.
There was a drawing of an infant’s shoe, half worn out, with the airy print of the blessed foot within; a thing that would make a mother smile or weep out of the very depths of her heart; and yet an actual mother would not have been likely to appreciate the poetry of the little shoe, until Miriam revealed it to her. It was wonderful, the depth and force with which the above, and other kindred subjects, were depicted, and the profound significance which they often acquired. The artist, still in her fresh youth, could not probably have drawn113 any of these dear and rich experiences from her own life; unless, perchance, that first sketch of all, the avowal of maiden affection, were a remembered incident, and not a prophecy. But it is more delightful to believe that, from first to last, they were the productions of a beautiful imagination, dealing114 with the warm and pure suggestions of a woman’s heart, and thus idealizing a truer and lovelier picture of the life that belongs to woman, than an actual acquaintance with some of its hard and dusty facts could have inspired. So considered, the sketches intimated such a force and variety of imaginative sympathies as would enable Miriam to fill her life richly with the bliss115 and suffering of womanhood, however barren it might individually be.
There was one observable point, indeed, betokening116 that the artist relinquished117, for her personal self, the happiness which she could so profoundly appreciate for others. In all those sketches of common life, and the affections that spiritualize it, a figure was portrayed118 apart, now it peeped between the branches of a shrubbery, amid which two lovers sat; now it was looking through a frosted window, from the outside, while a young wedded pair sat at their new fireside within; and once it leaned from a chariot, which six horses were whirling onward119 in pomp and pride, and gazed at a scene of humble33 enjoyment by a cottage door. Always it was the same figure, and always depicted with an expression of deep sadness; and in every instance, slightly as they were brought out, the face and form had the traits of Miriam’s own.
“Do you like these sketches better, Donatello?” asked Miriam. “Yes,” said Donatello rather doubtfully. “Not much, I fear,” responded she, laughing. “And what should a boy like you—a Faun too,—know about the joys and sorrows, the intertwining light and shadow, of human life? I forgot that you were a Faun. You cannot suffer deeply; therefore you can but half enjoy. Here, now, is a subject which you can better appreciate.”
The sketch represented merely a rustic dance, but with such extravagance of fun as was delightful to behold120; and here there was no drawback, except that strange sigh and sadness which always come when we are merriest.
“I am going to paint the picture in oils,” said the artist; “and I want you, Donatello, for the wildest dancer of them all. Will you sit for me, some day?—or, rather, dance for me?”
“O, most gladly, signorina!” exclaimed Donatello. “See; it shall be like this.”
And forthwith he began to dance, and flit about the studio, like an incarnate122 sprite of jollity, pausing at last on the extremity123 of one toe, as if that were the only portion of himself whereby his frisky124 nature could come in contact with the earth. The effect in that shadowy chamber125, whence the artist had so carefully excluded the sunshine, was as enlivening as if one bright ray had contrived126 to shimmer127 in and frolic around the walls, and finally rest just in the centre of the floor.
“That was admirable!” said Miriam, with an approving smile. “If I can catch you on my canvas, it will be a glorious picture; only I am afraid you will dance out of it, by the very truth of the representation, just when I shall have given it the last touch. We will try it one of these days. And now, to reward you for that jolly exhibition, you shall see what has been shown to no one else.”
She went to her easel, on which was placed a picture with its back turned towards the spectator. Reversing the position, there appeared the portrait of a beautiful woman, such as one sees only two or three, if even so many times, in all a lifetime; so beautiful, that she seemed to get into your consciousness and memory, and could never afterwards be shut out, but haunted your dreams, for pleasure or for pain; holding your inner realm as a conquered territory, though without deigning128 to make herself at home there.
She was very youthful, and had what was usually thought to be a Jewish aspect; a complexion129 in which there was no roseate bloom, yet neither was it pale; dark eyes, into which you might look as deeply as your glance would go, and still be conscious of a depth that you had not sounded, though it lay open to the day. She had black, abundant hair, with none of the vulgar glossiness130 of other women’s sable131 locks; if she were really of Jewish blood, then this was Jewish hair, and a dark glory such as crowns no Christian132 maiden’s head. Gazing at this portrait, you saw what Rachel might have been, when Jacob deemed her worth the wooing seven years, and seven more; or perchance she might ripen133 to be what Judith was, when she vanquished134 Holofernes with her beauty, and slew135 him for too much adoring it.
Miriam watched Donatello’s contemplation of the picture, and seeing his simple rapture136, a smile of pleasure brightened on her face, mixed with a little scorn; at least, her lips curled, and her eyes gleamed, as if she disdained137 either his admiration138 or her own enjoyment of it.
“Then you like the picture, Donatello?” she asked.
“O, beyond what I can tell!” he answered. “So beautiful!—so beautiful!”
“Signorina,” exclaimed Donatello, turning from the picture to the artist, in astonishment140 that she should ask the question, “the resemblance is as little to be mistaken as if you had bent141 over the smooth surface of a fountain, and possessed142 the witchcraft143 to call forth121 the image that you made there! It is yourself!”
Donatello said the truth; and we forebore to speak descriptively of Miriam’s beauty earlier in our narrative144, because we foresaw this occasion to bring it perhaps more forcibly before the reader.
We know not whether the portrait were a flattered likeness; probably not, regarding it merely as the delineation145 of a lovely face; although Miriam, like all self-painters, may have endowed herself with certain graces which Other eyes might not discern. Artists are fond of painting their own portraits; and, in Florence, there is a gallery of hundreds of them, including the most illustrious, in all of which there are autobiographical characteristics, so to speak,—traits, expressions, loftinesses, and amenities146, which would have been invisible, had they not been painted from within. Yet their reality and truth are none the less. Miriam, in like manner, had doubtless conveyed some of the intimate results of her heart knowledge into her own portrait, and perhaps wished to try whether they would be perceptible to so simple and natural an observer as Donatello.
“Does the expression please you?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Donatello hesitatingly; “if it would only smile so like the sunshine as you sometimes do. No, it is sadder than I thought at first. Cannot you make yourself smile a little, signorina?”
“A forced smile is uglier than a frown,” said Miriam, a bright, natural smile breaking out over her face even as she spoke147.
“O, catch it now!” cried Donatello, clapping his hands. “Let it shine upon the picture! There! it has vanished already! And you are sad again, very sad; and the picture gazes sadly forth at me, as if some evil had befallen it in the little time since I looked last.”
“How perplexed you seem, my friend!” answered Miriam. “I really half believe you are a Faun, there is such a mystery and terror for you in these dark moods, which are just as natural as daylight to us people of ordinary mould. I advise you, at all events, to look at other faces with those innocent and happy eyes, and never more to gaze at mine!”
“You speak in vain,” replied the young man, with a deeper emphasis than she had ever before heard in his voice; “shroud yourself in what gloom you will, I must needs follow you.”
“Well, well, well,” said Miriam impatiently; “but leave me now; for to speak plainly, my good friend, you grow a little wearisome. I walk this afternoon in the Borghese grounds. Meet me there, if it suits your pleasure.”
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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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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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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busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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gushes
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| n.涌出，迸发( gush的名词复数 )v.喷，涌( gush的第三人称单数 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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spurts
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| 短暂而突然的活动或努力( spurt的名词复数 )； 突然奋起 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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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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verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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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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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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tinkling
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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reverberate
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doorway
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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cardinals
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| 红衣主教( cardinal的名词复数 )； 红衣凤头鸟（见于北美，雄鸟为鲜红色）； 基数 | |
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mien
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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homely
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abode
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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retinue
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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haughtiest
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| haughty（傲慢的，骄傲的）的最高级形式 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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doorways
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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40
whitewash
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| v.粉刷，掩饰；n.石灰水，粉刷，掩饰 | |
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41
palatial
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| adj.宫殿般的，宏伟的 | |
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42
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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43
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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44
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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45
plies
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的第三人称单数 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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46
adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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47
fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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48
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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49
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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50
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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51
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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52
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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53
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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54
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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55
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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56
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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57
pictorially
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| 绘画般地 | |
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58
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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59
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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60
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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61
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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62
beckon
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| v.(以点头或打手势)向...示意，召唤 | |
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63
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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64
pliable
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| adj.易受影响的；易弯的；柔顺的，易驾驭的 | |
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65
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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66
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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67
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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68
jointed
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| 有接缝的 | |
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69
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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70
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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71
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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72
grotto
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| n.洞穴 | |
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73
arbor
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| n.凉亭；树木 | |
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74
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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75
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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76
behooved
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| v.适宜( behoove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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78
dolorously
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| adj. 悲伤的；痛苦的；悲哀的；阴沉的 | |
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79
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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80
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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81
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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82
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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83
jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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84
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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85
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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86
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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87
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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89
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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90
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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91
quirk
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| n.奇事，巧合；古怪的举动 | |
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92
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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93
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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94
potentate
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| n.统治者；君主 | |
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95
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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96
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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97
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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98
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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99
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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100
crimsoned
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| 变为深红色（crimson的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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101
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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102
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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103
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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104
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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105
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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106
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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107
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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108
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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109
portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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110
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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111
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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112
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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113
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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114
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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115
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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116
betokening
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的现在分词 ) | |
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117
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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118
portrayed
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| v.画像( portray的过去式和过去分词 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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119
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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120
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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121
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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122
incarnate
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| adj.化身的，人体化的，肉色的 | |
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123
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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124
frisky
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| adj.活泼的，欢闹的；n.活泼，闹着玩；adv.活泼地，闹着玩地 | |
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125
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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126
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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127
shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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128
deigning
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的现在分词 ) | |
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129
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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130
glossiness
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| 有光泽的； 光泽度 | |
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131
sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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132
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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133
ripen
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| vt.使成熟；vi.成熟 | |
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134
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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135
slew
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| v.（使）旋转；n.大量，许多 | |
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136
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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137
disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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138
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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139
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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140
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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141
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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142
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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143
witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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144
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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145
delineation
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| n.记述；描写 | |
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146
amenities
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| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
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147
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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