The place of meeting was in the palatial4, but somewhat faded and gloomy apartment of an eminent5 member of the aesthetic6 body. It was no more formal an occasion than one of those weekly receptions, common among the foreign residents of Rome, at which pleasant people—or disagreeable ones, as the case may be—encounter one another with little ceremony.
If anywise interested in art, a man must be difficult to please who cannot find fit companionship among a crowd of persons, whose ideas and pursuits all tend towards the general purpose of enlarging the world’s stock of beautiful productions.
One of the chief causes that make Rome the favorite residence of artists—their ideal home which they sigh for in advance, and are so loath7 to migrate from, after once breathing its enchanted8 air—is, doubtless, that they there find themselves in force, and are numerous enough to create a congenial atmosphere. In every other clime they are isolated9 strangers; in this land of art, they are free citizens.
Not that, individually, or in the mass, there appears to be any large stock of mutual10 affection among the brethren of the chisel11 and the pencil. On the contrary, it will impress the shrewd observer that the jealousies12 and petty animosities, which the poets of our day have flung aside, still irritate and gnaw13 into the hearts of this kindred class of imaginative men. It is not difficult to suggest reasons why this should be the fact. The public, in whose good graces lie the sculptor’s or the painter’s prospects14 of success, is infinitely15 smaller than the public to which literary men make their appeal. It is composed of a very limited body of wealthy patrons; and these, as the artist well knows, are but blind judges in matters that require the utmost delicacy16 of perception. Thus, success in art is apt to become partly an affair of intrigue17; and it is almost inevitable18 that even a gifted artist should look askance at his gifted brother’s fame, and be chary19 of the good word that might help him to sell still another statue or picture. You seldom hear a painter heap generous praise on anything in his special line of art; a sculptor never has a favorable eye for any marble but his own.
Nevertheless, in spite of all these professional grudges20, artists are conscious of a social warmth from each other’s presence and contiguity21. They shiver at the remembrance of their lonely studios in the unsympathizing cities of their native land. For the sake of such brotherhood22 as they can find, more than for any good that they get from galleries, they linger year after year in Italy, while their originality23 dies out of them, or is polished away as a barbarism.
The company this evening included several men and women whom the world has heard of, and many others, beyond all question, whom it ought to know. It would be a pleasure to introduce them upon our humble24 pages, name by name, and had we confidence enough in our own taste—to crown each well-deserving brow according to its deserts. The opportunity is tempting25, but not easily manageable, and far too perilous26, both in respect to those individuals whom we might bring forward, and the far greater number that must needs be left in the shade. Ink, moreover, is apt to have a corrosive27 quality, and might chance to raise a blister28, instead of any more agreeable titillation29, on skins so sensitive as those of artists. We must therefore forego the delight of illuminating30 this chapter with personal allusions31 to men whose renown32 glows richly on canvas, or gleams in the white moonlight of marble.
Otherwise we might point to an artist who has studied Nature with such tender love that she takes him to her intimacy33, enabling him to reproduce her in landscapes that seem the reality of a better earth, and yet are but the truth of the very scenes around us, observed by the painter’s insight and interpreted for us by his skill. By his magic, the moon throws her light far out of the picture, and the crimson34 of the summer night absolutely glimmers35 on the beholder’s face. Or we might indicate a poet-painter, whose song has the vividness of picture, and whose canvas is peopled with angels, fairies, and water sprites, done to the ethereal life, because he saw them face to face in his poetic36 mood. Or we might bow before an artist, who has wrought37 too sincerely, too religiously, with too earnest a feeling, and too delicate a touch, for the world at once to recognize how much toil38 and thought are compressed into the stately brow of Prospero, and Miranda’s maiden39 loveliness; or from what a depth within this painter’s heart the Angel is leading forth40 St. Peter.
Thus it would be easy to go on, perpetrating a score of little epigrammatical allusions, like the above, all kindly41 meant, but none of them quite hitting the mark, and often striking where they were not aimed. It may be allowable to say, however, that American art is much better represented at Rome in the pictorial42 than in the sculpturesque department. Yet the men of marble appear to have more weight with the public than the men of canvas; perhaps on account of the greater density43 and solid substance of the material in which they work, and the sort of physical advantage which their labors44 thus acquire over the illusive45 unreality of color. To be a sculptor seems a distinction in itself; whereas a painter is nothing, unless individually eminent.
One sculptor there was, an Englishman, endowed with a beautiful fancy, and possessing at his fingers’ ends the capability46 of doing beautiful things. He was a quiet, simple, elderly personage, with eyes brown and bright, under a slightly impending47 brow, and a Grecian profile, such as he might have cut with his own chisel. He had spent his life, for forty years, in making Venuses, Cupids, Bacchuses, and a vast deal of other marble progeny49 of dreamwork, or rather frostwork: it was all a vapory exhalation out of the Grecian mythology50, crystallizing on the dull window-panes of to-day. Gifted with a more delicate power than any other man alive, he had foregone to be a Christian51 reality, and perverted52 himself into a Pagan idealist, whose business or efficacy, in our present world, it would be exceedingly difficult to define. And, loving and reverencing53 the pure material in which he wrought, as surely this admirable sculptor did, he had nevertheless robbed the marble of its chastity, by giving it an artificial warmth of hue54. Thus it became a sin and shame to look at his nude55 goddesses. They had revealed themselves to his imagination, no doubt, with all their deity56 about them; but, bedaubed with buff color, they stood forth to the eyes of the profane57 in the guise58 of naked women. But, whatever criticism may be ventured on his style, it was good to meet a man so modest and yet imbued59 with such thorough and simple conviction of his own right principles and practice, and so quietly satisfied that his kind of antique achievement was all that sculpture could effect for modern life.
This eminent person’s weight and authority among his artistic60 brethren were very evident; for beginning unobtrusively to utter himself on a topic of art, he was soon the centre of a little crowd of younger sculptors61. They drank in his wisdom, as if it would serve all the purposes of original inspiration; he, meanwhile, discoursing62 with gentle calmness, as if there could possibly be no other side, and often ratifying63, as it were, his own conclusions by a mildly emphatic64 “Yes.”
The veteran Sculptor’s unsought audience was composed mostly of our own countrymen. It is fair to say, that they were a body of very dexterous65 and capable artists, each of whom had probably given the delighted public a nude statue, or had won credit for even higher skill by the nice carving66 of buttonholes, shoe-ties, coat-seams, shirt-bosoms, and other such graceful67 peculiarities68 of modern costume. Smart, practical men they doubtless were, and some of them far more than this, but still not precisely69 what an uninitiated person looks for in a sculptor. A sculptor, indeed, to meet the demands which our preconceptions make upon him, should be even more indispensably a poet than those who deal in measured verse and rhyme. His material, or instrument, which serves him in the stead of shifting and transitory language, is a pure, white, undecaying substance. It insures immortality70 to whatever is wrought in it, and therefore makes it a religious obligation to commit no idea to its mighty72 guardianship73, save such as may repay the marble for its faithful care, its incorruptible fidelity74, by warming it with an ethereal life. Under this aspect, marble assumes a sacred character; and no man should dare to touch it unless he feels within himself a certain consecration75 and a priesthood, the only evidence of which, for the public eye, will be the high treatment of heroic subjects, or the delicate evolution of spiritual, through material beauty.
No ideas such as the foregoing—no misgivings76 suggested by them probably, troubled the self-complacency of most of these clever sculptors. Marble, in their view, had no such sanctity as we impute77 to it. It was merely a sort of white limestone78 from Carrara, cut into convenient blocks, and worth, in that state, about two or three dollars per pound; and it was susceptible79 of being wrought into certain shapes (by their own mechanical ingenuity80, or that of artisans in their employment) which would enable them to sell it again at a much higher figure. Such men, on the strength of some small knack81 in handling clay, which might have been fitly employed in making wax-work, are bold to call themselves sculptors. How terrible should be the thought that the nude woman whom the modern artist patches together, bit by bit, from a dozen heterogeneous82 models, meaning nothing by her, shall last as long as the Venus of the Capitol!—that his group of—no matter what, since it has no moral or intellectual existence will not physically83 crumble84 any sooner than the immortal71 agony of the Laocoon!
Yet we love the artists, in every kind; even these, whose merits we are not quite able to appreciate. Sculptors, painters, crayon sketchers, or whatever branch of aesthetics86 they adopted, were certainly pleasanter people, as we saw them that evening, than the average whom we meet in ordinary society. They were not wholly confined within the sordid87 compass of practical life; they had a pursuit which, if followed faithfully out, would lead them to the beautiful, and always had a tendency thitherward, even if they lingered to gather up golden dross88 by the wayside. Their actual business (though they talked about it very much as other men talk of cotton, politics, flour barrels, and sugar) necessarily illuminated89 their conversation with something akin48 to the ideal. So, when the guests collected themselves in little groups, here and there, in the wide saloon, a cheerful and airy gossip began to be heard. The atmosphere ceased to be precisely that of common life; a hint, mellow90 tinge91, such as we see in pictures, mingled92 itself with the lamplight.
This good effect was assisted by many curious little treasures of art, which the host had taken care to strew93 upon his tables. They were principally such bits of antiquity94 as the soil of Rome and its neighborhood are still rich in; seals, gems95, small figures of bronze, mediaeval carvings96 in ivory; things which had been obtained at little cost, yet might have borne no inconsiderable value in the museum of a virtuoso97.
As interesting as any of these relics98 was a large portfolio99 of old drawings, some of which, in the opinion of their possessor, bore evidence on their faces of the touch of master-hands. Very ragged100 and ill conditioned they mostly were, yellow with time, and tattered101 with rough usage; and, in their best estate, the designs had been scratched rudely with pen and ink, on coarse paper, or, if drawn102 with charcoal103 or a pencil, were now half rubbed out. You would not anywhere see rougher and homelier things than these. But this hasty rudeness made the sketches104 only the more valuable; because the artist seemed to have bestirred himself at the pinch of the moment, snatching up whatever material was nearest, so as to seize the first glimpse of an idea that might vanish in the twinkling of an eye. Thus, by the spell of a creased105, soiled, and discolored scrap106 of paper, you were enabled to steal close to an old master, and watch him in the very effervescence of his genius.
According to the judgment107 of several connoisseurs108, Raphael’s own hand had communicated its magnetism109 to one of these sketches; and, if genuine, it was evidently his first conception of a favorite Madonna, now hanging in the private apartment of the Grand Duke, at Florence. Another drawing was attributed to Leonardo da Vinci, and appeared to be a somewhat varied110 design for his picture of Modesty111 and Vanity, in the Sciarra Palace. There were at least half a dozen others, to which the owner assigned as high an origin. It was delightful112 to believe in their authenticity113, at all events; for these things make the spectator more vividly114 sensible of a great painter’s power, than the final glow and perfected art of the most consummate115 picture that may have been elaborated from them. There is an effluence of divinity in the first sketch85; and there, if anywhere, you find the pure light of inspiration, which the subsequent toil of the artist serves to bring out in stronger lustre116, indeed, but likewise adulterates it with what belongs to an inferior mood. The aroma117 and fragrance118 of new thoughts were perceptible in these designs, after three centuries of wear and tear. The charm lay partly in their very imperfection; for this is suggestive, and sets the imagination at work; whereas, the finished picture, if a good one, leaves the spectator nothing to do, and, if bad, confuses, stupefies, disenchants, and disheartens him.
Hilda was greatly interested in this rich portfolio. She lingered so long over one particular sketch, that Miriam asked her what discovery she had made.
“Look at it carefully,” replied Hilda, putting the sketch into her hands. “If you take pains to disentangle the design from those pencil-marks that seem to have been scrawled120 over it, I think you will see something very curious.”
“It is a hopeless affair, I am afraid,” said Miriam. “I have neither your faith, dear Hilda, nor your perceptive121 faculty122. Fie! what a blurred123 scrawl119 it is indeed!”
The drawing had originally been very slight, and had suffered more from time and hard usage than almost any other in the collection; it appeared, too, that there had been an attempt (perhaps by the very hand that drew it) to obliterate124 the design. By Hilda’s help, however, Miriam pretty distinctly made out a winged figure with a drawn sword, and a dragon, or a demon125, prostrate126 at his feet.
“I am convinced,” said Hilda in a low, reverential tone, “that Guido’s own touches are on that ancient scrap of paper! If so, it must be his original sketch for the picture of the Archangel Michael setting his foot upon the demon, in the Church of the Cappuccini. The composition and general arrangement of the sketch are the same with those of the picture; the only difference being, that the demon has a more upturned face, and scowls127 vindictively128 at the Archangel, who turns away his eyes in painful disgust.”
“No wonder!” responded Miriam. “The expression suits the daintiness of Michael’s character, as Guido represents him. He never could have looked the demon in the face!”
“Miriam!” exclaimed her friend reproachfully, “you grieve me, and you know it, by pretending to speak contemptuously of the most beautiful and the divinest figure that mortal painter ever drew.”
“Forgive me, Hilda!” said Miriam. “You take these matters more religiously than I can, for my life. Guido’s Archangel is a fine picture, of course, but it never impressed me as it does you.”
“Well; we will not talk of that,” answered Hilda. “What I wanted you to notice, in this sketch, is the face of the demon. It is entirely unlike the demon of the finished picture. Guido, you know, always affirmed that the resemblance to Cardinal129 Pamfili was either casual or imaginary. Now, here is the face as he first conceived it.”
“And a more energetic demon, altogether, than that of the finished picture,” said Kenyon, taking the sketch into his hand. “What a spirit is conveyed into the ugliness of this strong, writhing130, squirming dragon, under the Archangel’s foot! Neither is the face an impossible one. Upon my word, I have seen it somewhere, and on the shoulders of a living man!”
“And so have I,” said Hilda. “It was what struck me from the first.”
“Donatello, look at this face!” cried Kenyon.
The young Italian, as may be supposed, took little interest in matters of art, and seldom or never ventured an opinion respecting them. After holding the sketch a single instant in his hand, he flung it from him with a shudder131 of disgust and repugnance132, and a frown that had all the bitterness of hatred133.
“I know the face well!” whispered he. “It is Miriam’s model!”
It was acknowledged both by Kenyon and Hilda that they had detected, or fancied, the resemblance which Donatello so strongly affirmed; and it added not a little to the grotesque134 and weird135 character which, half playfully, half seriously, they assigned to Miriam’s attendant, to think of him as personating the demon’s part in a picture of more than two centuries ago. Had Guido, in his effort to imagine the utmost of sin and misery136, which his pencil could represent, hit ideally upon just this face? Or was it an actual portrait of somebody, that haunted the old master, as Miriam was haunted now? Did the ominous137 shadow follow him through all the sunshine of his earlier career, and into the gloom that gathered about its close? And when Guido died, did the spectre betake himself to those ancient sepulchres, there awaiting a new victim, till it was Miriam’s ill-hap to encounter him?
“I do not acknowledge the resemblance at all,” said Miriam, looking narrowly at the sketch; “and, as I have drawn the face twenty times, I think you will own that I am the best judge.”
A discussion here arose, in reference to Guido’s Archangel, and it was agreed that these four friends should visit the Church of the Cappuccini the next morning, and critically examine the picture in question; the similarity between it and the sketch being, at all events, a very curious circumstance.
It was now a little past ten o’clock, when some of the company, who had been standing138 in a balcony, declared the moonlight to be resplendent. They proposed a ramble139 through the streets, taking in their way some of those scenes of ruin which produced their best effects under the splendor140 of the Italian moon.
点击收听单词发音
1 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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2 sculptor | |
n.雕刻家,雕刻家 | |
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3 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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4 palatial | |
adj.宫殿般的,宏伟的 | |
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5 eminent | |
adj.显赫的,杰出的,有名的,优良的 | |
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6 aesthetic | |
adj.美学的,审美的,有美感 | |
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7 loath | |
adj.不愿意的;勉强的 | |
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8 enchanted | |
adj. 被施魔法的,陶醉的,入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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9 isolated | |
adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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10 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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11 chisel | |
n.凿子;v.用凿子刻,雕,凿 | |
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12 jealousies | |
n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 );妒羡 | |
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13 gnaw | |
v.不断地啃、咬;使苦恼,折磨 | |
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14 prospects | |
n.希望,前途(恒为复数) | |
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15 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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16 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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17 intrigue | |
vt.激起兴趣,迷住;vi.耍阴谋;n.阴谋,密谋 | |
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18 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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19 chary | |
adj.谨慎的,细心的 | |
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20 grudges | |
不满,怨恨,妒忌( grudge的名词复数 ) | |
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21 contiguity | |
n.邻近,接壤 | |
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22 brotherhood | |
n.兄弟般的关系,手中情谊 | |
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23 originality | |
n.创造力,独创性;新颖 | |
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24 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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25 tempting | |
a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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26 perilous | |
adj.危险的,冒险的 | |
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27 corrosive | |
adj.腐蚀性的;有害的;恶毒的 | |
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28 blister | |
n.水疱;(油漆等的)气泡;v.(使)起泡 | |
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29 titillation | |
n.搔痒,愉快;搔痒感 | |
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30 illuminating | |
a.富于启发性的,有助阐明的 | |
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31 allusions | |
暗指,间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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32 renown | |
n.声誉,名望 | |
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33 intimacy | |
n.熟悉,亲密,密切关系,亲昵的言行 | |
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34 crimson | |
n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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35 glimmers | |
n.微光,闪光( glimmer的名词复数 )v.发闪光,发微光( glimmer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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36 poetic | |
adj.富有诗意的,有诗人气质的,善于抒情的 | |
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37 wrought | |
v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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38 toil | |
vi.辛劳工作,艰难地行动;n.苦工,难事 | |
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39 maiden | |
n.少女,处女;adj.未婚的,纯洁的,无经验的 | |
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40 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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41 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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42 pictorial | |
adj.绘画的;图片的;n.画报 | |
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43 density | |
n.密集,密度,浓度 | |
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44 labors | |
v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 );苦干;详细分析;(指引擎)缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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45 illusive | |
adj.迷惑人的,错觉的 | |
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46 capability | |
n.能力;才能;(pl)可发展的能力或特性等 | |
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47 impending | |
a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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48 akin | |
adj.同族的,类似的 | |
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49 progeny | |
n.后代,子孙;结果 | |
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50 mythology | |
n.神话,神话学,神话集 | |
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51 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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52 perverted | |
adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 );腐蚀;败坏;使堕落 | |
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53 reverencing | |
v.尊敬,崇敬( reverence的现在分词 );敬礼 | |
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54 hue | |
n.色度;色调;样子 | |
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55 nude | |
adj.裸体的;n.裸体者,裸体艺术品 | |
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56 deity | |
n.神,神性;被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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57 profane | |
adj.亵神的,亵渎的;vt.亵渎,玷污 | |
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58 guise | |
n.外表,伪装的姿态 | |
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59 imbued | |
v.使(某人/某事)充满或激起(感情等)( imbue的过去式和过去分词 );使充满;灌输;激发(强烈感情或品质等) | |
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60 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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61 sculptors | |
雕刻家,雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 ); [天]玉夫座 | |
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62 discoursing | |
演说(discourse的现在分词形式) | |
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63 ratifying | |
v.批准,签认(合约等)( ratify的现在分词 ) | |
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64 emphatic | |
adj.强调的,着重的;无可置疑的,明显的 | |
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65 dexterous | |
adj.灵敏的;灵巧的 | |
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66 carving | |
n.雕刻品,雕花 | |
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67 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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68 peculiarities | |
n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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69 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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70 immortality | |
n.不死,不朽 | |
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71 immortal | |
adj.不朽的;永生的,不死的;神的 | |
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72 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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73 guardianship | |
n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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74 fidelity | |
n.忠诚,忠实;精确 | |
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75 consecration | |
n.供献,奉献,献祭仪式 | |
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76 misgivings | |
n.疑虑,担忧,害怕;疑虑,担心,恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 );疑惧 | |
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77 impute | |
v.归咎于 | |
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78 limestone | |
n.石灰石 | |
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79 susceptible | |
adj.过敏的,敏感的;易动感情的,易受感动的 | |
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80 ingenuity | |
n.别出心裁;善于发明创造 | |
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81 knack | |
n.诀窍,做事情的灵巧的,便利的方法 | |
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82 heterogeneous | |
adj.庞杂的;异类的 | |
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83 physically | |
adj.物质上,体格上,身体上,按自然规律 | |
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84 crumble | |
vi.碎裂,崩溃;vt.弄碎,摧毁 | |
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85 sketch | |
n.草图;梗概;素描;v.素描;概述 | |
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86 aesthetics | |
n.(尤指艺术方面之)美学,审美学 | |
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87 sordid | |
adj.肮脏的,不干净的,卑鄙的,暗淡的 | |
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88 dross | |
n.渣滓;无用之物 | |
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89 illuminated | |
adj.被照明的;受启迪的 | |
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90 mellow | |
adj.柔和的;熟透的;v.变柔和;(使)成熟 | |
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91 tinge | |
vt.(较淡)着色于,染色;使带有…气息;n.淡淡色彩,些微的气息 | |
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92 mingled | |
混合,混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 ); 混进,与…交往[联系] | |
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93 strew | |
vt.撒;使散落;撒在…上,散布于 | |
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94 antiquity | |
n.古老;高龄;古物,古迹 | |
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95 gems | |
growth; economy; management; and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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96 carvings | |
n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 );雕刻术;雕刻品;雕刻物 | |
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97 virtuoso | |
n.精于某种艺术或乐器的专家,行家里手 | |
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98 relics | |
[pl.]n.遗物,遗迹,遗产;遗体,尸骸 | |
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99 portfolio | |
n.公事包;文件夹;大臣及部长职位 | |
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100 ragged | |
adj.衣衫褴褛的,粗糙的,刺耳的 | |
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101 tattered | |
adj.破旧的,衣衫破的 | |
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102 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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103 charcoal | |
n.炭,木炭,生物炭 | |
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104 sketches | |
n.草图( sketch的名词复数 );素描;速写;梗概 | |
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105 creased | |
(使…)起折痕,弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 ); (皮肤)皱起,使起皱纹; 皱皱巴巴 | |
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106 scrap | |
n.碎片;废料;v.废弃,报废 | |
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107 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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108 connoisseurs | |
n.鉴赏家,鉴定家,行家( connoisseur的名词复数 ) | |
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109 magnetism | |
n.磁性,吸引力,磁学 | |
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110 varied | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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111 modesty | |
n.谦逊,虚心,端庄,稳重,羞怯,朴素 | |
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112 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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113 authenticity | |
n.真实性 | |
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114 vividly | |
adv.清楚地,鲜明地,生动地 | |
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115 consummate | |
adj.完美的;v.成婚;使完美 [反]baffle | |
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116 lustre | |
n.光亮,光泽;荣誉 | |
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117 aroma | |
n.香气,芬芳,芳香 | |
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118 fragrance | |
n.芬芳,香味,香气 | |
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119 scrawl | |
vt.潦草地书写;n.潦草的笔记,涂写 | |
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120 scrawled | |
乱涂,潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121 perceptive | |
adj.知觉的,有洞察力的,感知的 | |
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122 faculty | |
n.才能;学院,系;(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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123 blurred | |
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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124 obliterate | |
v.擦去,涂抹,去掉...痕迹,消失,除去 | |
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125 demon | |
n.魔鬼,恶魔 | |
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126 prostrate | |
v.拜倒,平卧,衰竭;adj.拜倒的,平卧的,衰竭的 | |
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127 scowls | |
不悦之色,怒容( scowl的名词复数 ) | |
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128 vindictively | |
adv.恶毒地;报复地 | |
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129 cardinal | |
n.(天主教的)红衣主教;adj.首要的,基本的 | |
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130 writhing | |
(因极度痛苦而)扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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131 shudder | |
v.战粟,震动,剧烈地摇晃;n.战粟,抖动 | |
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132 repugnance | |
n.嫌恶 | |
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133 hatred | |
n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
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134 grotesque | |
adj.怪诞的,丑陋的;n.怪诞的图案,怪人(物) | |
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135 weird | |
adj.古怪的,离奇的;怪诞的,神秘而可怕的 | |
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136 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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137 ominous | |
adj.不祥的,不吉的,预兆的,预示的 | |
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138 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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139 ramble | |
v.漫步,漫谈,漫游;n.漫步,闲谈,蔓延 | |
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140 splendor | |
n.光彩;壮丽,华丽;显赫,辉煌 | |
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